The DCI Morton Box Set

by Sean Campbell

  'Time is up, Mr Murphy. If you'd care to follow me, please.' Her tone was pleasant but firm.

  Edwin was then led into his first-ever panel interview. A dozen individuals were arrayed down the length of a large, expensive, oak conference table. The secretary gestured for him to sit in the sole chair on the opposing side and left the room without further ado.

  Edwin had noticed a coat rack by the door on the way in. He took his time removing his jacket and hanging it neatly before tucking his briefcase under the table and sitting before the waiting CBC executives.

  'Good afternoon, Mr Murphy,' the central member of the panel said. He was a youngish man, and judging by the ill-fitting suit he was not truly an executive. Edwin replied with the usual courtesy as his eyes scanned the faces of those watching him. On the far left sat an older gentleman. His attire was nondescript: a simple white cotton shirt and black trousers. This would have been completely unmemorable had there not been a distinct pattern on his wrist, a void where his tan should have continued. Edwin deduced that the man customarily wore a large watch, probably a diver's watch. From the watch's absence it was clear that the man was concealing his wealth. He was probably someone important, but was trying to conceal who he was.

  Edwin began to study the rest of the panel when the young man spoke again.

  'Mr Murphy,' he began.

  'Please, call me Edwin,' Edwin interrupted him.

  The younger man frowned at the interruption and began the interview in earnest.

  'If you were a dinosaur, what kind of a dinosaur would you be?'

  Edwin almost burst out laughing. It was an absurd question, the sort used only by head-hunters and human resources personnel.

  It was the sort of question that is asked not to find out the answer, but to test how the candidate responds to the unexpected, to test how fast they think on their feet.

  Edwin knew this and chose to ignore it entirely.

  'I'm sure you have a number of quips ready no matter which of the common answers I give. I expect you're hoping I'll say tyrannosaurus rex. The truth of it is I am not a dinosaur. They are, after all, extinct.' Edwin turned to face the man on the left who was missing his watch.

  'Forgive me for being blunt, sir, but I would prefer to deal with those in charge of hiring rather than some spotty-nosed kid.' Edwin flicked his hand at the human resources representative.

  The man looked taken aback for a moment, then grinned a wide toothy smile.

  'How'd you figure out who I am, son?' he asked

  'Putting the important people on the end of the panel is a classic. The lackey chairs from the centre and distracts from the real panel. He asks frankly absurd questions, and you watch how I respond. That, and your tan line is a dead giveaway.'

  The CEO guffawed.

  'That'll be all, thanks, Tony.'

  The younger man rose and left in silence, with three of his colleagues following him. Once they had closed the door the CEO introduced himself properly.

  'I'm Victor Robbins, CEO here at CBC. To my left is our in-house counsel, our CFO and our deputy editor, Andy Hodgson. We've seen your work, and you spoke to Andy on the phone. We invited y'all here today to see if we liked the cut of your jib, and whether we think you'd fit in here in Vancouver. We're delighted to say you do fit in.'

  ***

  Back at the Downtown Vancouver Hilton, Edwin practically fell into bed.

  It had been a long day. They had most certainly liked him, but he had realised the interview was virtually a formality when they agreed to fly him halfway around the world for a face-to-face interview. It was nearly 7 p.m. Pacific time when he finally got to check his darknet messages. Vancouver lags eight hours behind London so it was no surprise to see the new message indicator flash as soon as he logged on.

  'Seems like a fair swap. What is your problem?' he read.

  Did she understand what he was proposing? Was she an undercover cop? Did it make a difference even if she was? He was, after all, anonymous.

  Edwin pecked out a reply, typing with just two fingers. He had become too reliant on Betty's touch-typing.

  'A woman. I need her gone.' He hit send, and his message zoomed around the globe in cyberspace, bouncing off relays in Singapore, California, Newfoundland and even Kenya before it reached Vanhi back in London.

  ***

  Vanhi studied the reply. She had not figured that a woman would be the other person's target. Perhaps she had been too rash in responding to the message. But then Vanhi wondered if it even really mattered if her victim was a man or a woman. As long as she didn't have to see him ever again it would be worth it.

  'Get me a picture.' She typed. 'How and when?'

  A few minutes later, Vanhi had a mini biography on Eleanor. She knew that Eleanor took a run at quarter to eight each morning for a circuit around Belgravia, and she had a clear image of Eleanor's bobbed auburn hair. She knew she had a week to pull off the kill, she just didn't know how to do it yet.

  ***

  Edwin was a cautious man. He was not one to take risks that could be mitigated. Rather than providing a mere alibi, Edwin wanted to make his visit to Vancouver look genuine. He was a bona fide prospective citizen, so it was only natural to take some time to explore Vancouver. He'd booked a week in Canada, and he was in no rush to get back to London and his drab new apartment. There was no work to return to, and it looked like his choice to take a few days' break would provide the perfect alibi.

  While Edwin was not much of a sports fan, a friend had recommended checking out the BC Sports Hall of Fame and its attached museum. Hockey is a national pastime in Canada, and if Edwin were to become a Canadian he would certainly need to know some background on the sport, even if he didn't fancy actually playing it. It was too violent for Edwin really; he had experienced his share of violence as a tight head prop on the school rugby team back at Harrow.

  Edwin gladly paid the cover charge, and even picked up a gaudy souvenir t-shirt. He was every bit the tourist, studiously reading every plaque and memorising the names on various medals and trophies on display. He wasn't really interested but his years at The Impartial had imparted in him a thirst for knowledge, and the sports records allowed him to quench that thirst. Satiated, he moved on to the exhibits he was really fascinated by. One chronicled the life of Terry Fox, a cancer sufferer who ran cross-country across Canada, traversing 3,339 miles in just 143 days. The exhibit was aptly named the Marathon of Hope. If Edwin had still been an editor he would have loved to see such a great human-interest piece cross his desk.

  Still, Terry Fox's story was not the most inspirational. That honour fell to a Paralympian who trekked 40,000 km through thirty-four countries on four continents in a wheelchair to raise awareness of spinal cord injuries. It was at BC Place Stadium that Rick Hansen made his triumphant return to Vancouver, cheered by the crowds in the packed stadium.

  Feeling newly invigorated, Edwin left the Sports museum in search of lunch.

  ***

  The syringe was ready. Vanhi had primed it with cocaine mixed with ethanol and put in a new hypodermic needle. Once injected, the coke would take around fifteen seconds to begin to take effect.

  Eleanor's running route took her through Battersea Park on a circuitous route around the boating lake and then back across the Thames to Belgravia. The park was perfect. It was large, with plenty of places to hide. Getting away unseen would be easy.

  Vanhi could simply stab Eleanor, then go. She didn't even need to wait for her to die. The cocaine would induce respiratory and cardiac arrest. As long as no medical treatment was administered within a few minutes, Eleanor would die and it would be almost impossible to trace. Vanhi knew that all she had to do was remove Eleanor's keys, the only personal possessions she took with her when she went for her daily run, and the police would find it difficult to identify the body.

  Vanhi had to avoid the CCTV in the area. In the west the Park Superintendent's office would provide some coverage, while at the east end of t
he park the Pump House and the park toilets were both monitored. Fortunately Eleanor was not prone to sticking to the busy pedestrian paths, preferring the freedom of a cross-country run. Her return loop would take her past Fountain Lake in the north-west of the park. Vanhi would pretend to sit and enjoy the view while doing her make-up. In reality she would be using the mirror in her make-up case to watch what was going on behind her as well as monitoring everything in front of her. Vanhi had a week to carry out the hit, so she would sit on the same bench each morning waiting for Eleanor to jog past, and only carry out the hit if the coast was clear. If anyone was nearby and likely to render medical assistance, or worse, see what happened, she would abort and wait for the next day to try again.

  ***

  It had been a fantastic break. Edwin had imbibed the culture of Vancouver, playing tourist as well as enjoying the hotel's pool facilities. He could see himself living in Vancouver permanently. It was a beautiful city with plenty of amenities, and the people were as friendly and polite as the stereotypes suggested. Edwin found himself reluctant to leave, and it was with a heavy heart that he left his hotel suite to head back to London’s squalor. Edwin wondered if the hit had occurred yet. He had deliberately left his mobile back in London, and had not left his hotel contact details with anyone. There was no one for him to leave them to. His work friends were no more, as was his marriage, and he had long since neglected his university compatriots.

  Getting through airport security was painless, though Edwin made sure to keep his belt on as he went through the metal detectors. He wanted to be remembered, just in case.

  The flight was equally uneventful. He made a pass at one of the air hostesses, but was shot down in a delightfully polite manner.

  Edwin spent most of the nine hours fifteen minutes working out how to minimise the chances of the police catching him. He would have to go to her funeral of course. It would be noticed if he didn't. He might even have to give a eulogy. At the least he'd have to look after Chelsea through the service and the wake.

  He'd also have to be careful with the insurance. Fortunately it was an older policy taken out just after he and Eleanor married, so it wouldn't flag any suspicion for being recent. He would have to leave it in a drawer for a while; he mustn't be seen as too eager to claim, otherwise the police would never stop pursuing him. Edwin would simply have to play the aggrieved husband. They were having some troubles, but who wasn't? He and Eleanor had argued before, and they'd always worked it out. He was hopeful that this time would have been no different. He would move back into the townhouse of course; it simply wouldn't do to uproot Chelsea after all she had been through.

  Edwin dropped off to sleep over Greenland as these thoughts gambolled through his brain. A slight smile was painted on his aristocratic features.

  Chapter 6: Jogging is Murder

  Vanhi knew London was a hotbed for closed circuit television. Years of prostitution and drugs had taught her to avoid the bright lights of touristville, and to hide in a crowd when she could.

  She was still reluctant to be caught on CCTV on the tube network. Her apartment was above a chip shop in Caledonian Road. She could walk to Battersea Park, but it was almost six miles going straight there, and Vanhi wanted to take a more circumspect route.

  Vanhi's route took her on foot to Camden Town tube station. It was on the Northern line, the busiest commuter line on the underground. Vanhi knew she could easily be lost among the foot traffic. She took a train south to Stockwell before doubling back to Oval. To any observer it would look like she had simply missed her stop and gone one station too far.

  In reality it let Vanhi know she was not being followed. She didn't expect to be, but few paranoid criminals ever wound up in prison.

  From there it was less than half an hour on foot to Battersea Park. As she made her way there Vanhi observed a discernible lack of CCTV near the disused Battersea power station, as well as noticing that New Covent Garden Market was bustling with business, even at this early hour.

  By half-past seven she was seated on a bench overlooking Fountain Lake. She sat with a paperback for a while, occasionally glancing at her mobile phone.

  The mobile, like the paperback, had been bought just for the occasion. It was an old phone, and wouldn't attract any attention. The SIM card was a pay-as-you-go edition bought in a corner shop. She could have got one for free online, but this way she remained anonymous. She didn't need the phone to communicate, but by pretending to be sending text messages she could while away time without anyone becoming suspicious. Who would look at just another Londoner attached to their mobile?

  Vanhi had taken this route several times before, and she now knew Eleanor's jogging route well. It had taken a varied wardrobe not to be noticed on the first three attempts, but each time, Eleanor was absorbed in her run. She probably noticed little beyond the music on her iPod.

  For the first few attempts there had been bystanders around when Eleanor jogged by. On the first day an elderly lady sat next to Vanhi on the bench and nattered on about her grandchildren. Vanhi learnt to put her handbag by her side to occupy the whole bench.

  The second day another jogger had been with Eleanor. Whether it was planned or not, Vanhi didn't know. The scant information she had been provided with didn't cover jogging partners. On the third day a homeless man had been harassing Eleanor for money, and he wasn't going to give up without a fight. He had clearly missed the fact that Eleanor was running with no bag, no pockets and only her door key around her neck.

  On the fourth try, Eleanor appeared like clockwork. She came jogging up from the south of the park, towards the north-western exit. Vanhi's pulse began to race as Eleanor neared her, faster than even on the previous days. Her hands trembled. This time no one was about, she was sure of it.

  Now that it came down to the wire Vanhi realised that she couldn't get Eleanor while she was running, and it was unlikely that she would just stop in front of her.

  As Eleanor was about to jog on by, Vanhi called out to her in a loud voice, as she knew from experience that Eleanor's iPod would be set to quite a high volume.

  'Excuse me, darling, but your shoelace is undone,' she purred in an affected southern drawl.

  Eleanor smiled and glanced downwards at her trainers. As she frowned at the obvious lie Vanhi struck, thrusting the needle into her jugular and plunging the syringe down in one movement.

  Eleanor moved to strike out at her attacker but she stumbled. A huge dose of cocaine, hundreds of pounds worth, coursed through her veins. Her heart began to hammer in her ribcage. She was already breathing hard from the continuous jog, and it did not take long for the arrhythmia to set in as her heart rate soared. She tried to scream, but her lungs were burning from a lack of oxygen. Spots appeared before her eyes as she realised her attacker was dumping her on the bench. Where was someone, anyone, when she needed a passerby? She heard a crack as her consciousness failed her. Her key had been torn from her neck.

  Vanhi used her sleeve to pull the key off the chain. It was a cheap chain, the kind that could be bought in a hardware store rather than something more decorative. Vanhi flung the key into the lake, watching for a split second to make sure it sank before power-walking towards the south-east of the park. A run would garner attention, and a swift walk would not. She tucked the chain in her pocket to dispose of later, and escaped onto Queenstown Road.

  Minutes later she was lost among the crowd at New Covent Garden Market. Vanhi was in no rush to hurry back lest she draw attention to herself. She grabbed a burger at the market, and as she put the wrapper in the bin she slipped the chain and the spent needle in too. She resolved to walk home even though it was quite a trek. As she did so she practically whistled, thinking of the favour she was due to receive in return.

  ***

  The body was discovered about ten minutes later. An ambulance was quickly called and Eleanor rushed to the Royal London Hospital. The paramedics tried in vain to resuscitate her, but she was too far gone. They s
uspected drugs, but nothing they tried worked. Eleanor was pronounced dead on arrival, the latest Jane Bloggs in the city of London as she was carrying no ID.

  The hospital could not issue a death certificate. Suspected drugs deaths had to be referred to the City of London Coroner's Office as 'violent or unnatural'. The Coroner’s Office would then instruct a pathologist to investigate.

  Instead of issuing a death certificate, the attending doctor completed what is known as a Formal Notice. This would normally be given to the next of kin, but as the deceased was a Jane Bloggs this was not possible, and the doctor was not entirely sure of the procedure. He settled for keeping the notice on file until it was needed.

  Eleanor was soon ferried out of the hospital morgue and onto the pathologist's slab. The registrar could not register her death, both because of her anonymity and because the pathologist had not yet decided how to classify the death.

  A post-mortem was then conducted by the pathologist. This wasn't always done, but the pathologist deemed it prudent to investigate in the circumstances. It was, in fact, the pathologist's assistant who performed most of the autopsy.

  Before the autopsy the body was photographed by a pathology technician. Detailed notes were taken on the body's position ('splayed, no sign of bleeding'), the clothes worn ('expensive, designer, sportswear') and then various samples were taken including fibres from Eleanor's clothes, scrapings from under Eleanor's nails, as well as hair and skin cell samples.

  After the clothes were removed an ultraviolet light was used to highlight anything not noticeable to the naked eye. It was here that the assistant pathologist noticed the puncture wound to the neck. He scraped around the wound in case any residue remained, then took a number of close-up photographs to measure the extent of the puncture. It was clearly caused by a sharp-pointed object such as a needle.

  Satisfied that all the recoverable evidence to be had was recorded in his log the pathologist moved on to the internal examination. A rubber body block was placed in the small of Jane Bloggs' back, pushing her chest up higher to expose it to the pathologist's waiting knife. Her lifeless arms fell limply by her side as the pathologist cut a Y incision from her shoulders, meeting at the sternum. Heavy-duty shears were then used to force the incisions apart, exposing the chest cavity and the organs within.