The DCI Morton Box Set

by Sean Campbell

  'Do you have a copy of her client list?' Morton humoured Edwin. It was unlikely a simple company dispute would have led to her death.

  'Her firm would. Is that all you need from me, officer?' Edwin began to rise.

  'We have a few more questions yet, Mr Murphy.' Morton gestured for him to sit back down.

  'What is your relationship with your wife?'

  'We're married.' Edwin smirked inwardly. If he was going to have to discuss his marital problems, he wasn't going to make it easy.

  'Was it a happy marriage?' Morton asked.

  'For the most part. We'd recently had an argument. It happened from time to time.'

  'What were you arguing about?'

  'Work mostly. She felt I spent too much time in the office. Bit of a moot point now I suppose.' Edwin thought that a candid approach would garner the least suspicion.

  'Why is that?'

  'I'm working a lot less than I was before.' It was true, of a fashion.

  'I see. We found the divorce papers among your wife's possessions,' Morton confronted him.

  'I didn't kill her if that's what you think!' The denial slipped out before Edwin could work out if it would help or hinder his position.

  'Would you be willing to submit to a DNA test to prove that?' There was no DNA evidence to compare it to, but Edwin didn't know that.

  'Yes, of course. I can also provide an alibi.' It was too quick to offer an alibi, and Edwin knew it.

  'We haven't told you when she died yet.' Morton's eyebrow arched suspiciously.

  'Well, when did she die?'

  'Friday.' Morton didn't give a time.

  'I was on a plane over the Atlantic for most of the day. Ask anyone,' Edwin protested.

  'We will. Interview terminated, 11.29 a.m.'

  With that, Edwin was free to go. He grabbed his briefcase, which was now more of a fashion accessory than a genuine business accoutrement, and scurried out of the interview suite.

  ***

  Peter Sugden smiled. He had just made over a million pounds short selling in less than four hours. The financial papers had dubbed him a guru, able to foresee market movements with pinpoint precision. In reality, it was less to do with luck or skill than it was to do with networking. Over the years he had built a huge circle of acquaintances who would scratch his back in return for a favour. Some served on company boards as directors, others were at financial institutions such as banks and hedge funds. The commonality between them was that they all had their pulse on the heartbeat of the London Stock Exchange.

  Some of it was perfectly legitimate. Brokers and fund managers often trade rumours. The price of a stock is based as much on perceived value as it is the intrinsic value of the company's assets.

  That perception could be manipulated, to pump and dump certain shares, or to crash their value when short selling them. These were unethical, but the law rarely caught up with those involved. Instead it concentrated on those involved in insider trading. Having knowledge of a company that the public doesn't possess allows for a huge potential profit. Good news means buying up all the stock you can, and flogging it for a hideous profit. Bad news was even easier. Traders borrowed stock from institutions such as pension funds, paying them for the privilege. They then sold them, and rebought the same number and type of share within the loan period. If the stock fell, then the trader made a profit.

  This was what Peter and his coterie did. By trading tips on the innermost workings of public companies he and his cronies were able to manipulate prices to their own advantage every day. The industry average growth was around 8%, and Peter promised investors 15%. He kept every penny above this, and it had made him rich.

  The genius in the system was how they communicated. In the past the system would have been open to wiretaps, police surveillance and counterintelligence measures. Now, they simply used the darknet to communicate, a private network hidden deep in the Internet.

  The set-up had been suggested by the son of one of the parties to the project, and it allowed them to exchange information without anyone else ever seeing it. It was private, anonymous and heavily encrypted. Codenamed the Aesop Network, it allowed the group to openly share confidential information for profit, and they did. It took a while for Peter to become proficient with the technology, but once he did, the sky was the limit.

  ***

  Edwin's way out was confirmed. The previous message seemed serious. The guy was asking for two kills, his ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend. A two for one deal was insane really, but Edwin had no intention of following through so it didn't hurt him to agree. Of course he needed the other guy to come through first.

  'Multiples no problem, as long as you go first,' he typed.

  As long as the guy agreed to that, Edwin was free and clear. The contact had no possible way to find out who he was, so it was highly unlikely the police would ever trace it back to him.

  Detective Chief Inspector Morton struck Edwin as thorough, and his record was impeccable, but no one could link Edwin to a man whom he had never met, nor had any reason to meet. He'd also make sure he had a solid alibi for the night of the kill, one even Morton wouldn't question.

  ***

  The plan had seemed clean even if it was amoral, but Edwin had not expected it to be so hard to break the news of Eleanor's death to Chelsea. He wondered how he could do it and more importantly how he could continue to lie to his little girl, every day, for the rest of his life.

  It was too late now. What was done was done, he rationalised, but the guilt stayed with him. He tried to justify it as self-defence, that he was defending his relationship with his little girl, and that financially it was just self-preservation. Deep down he knew that he would never convince himself, but he could at least explain to Chelsea why Mummy wasn't around anymore.

  Chelsea had never experienced bereavement before. Not real grief. There had been a great-aunt that had died, and Eleanor had made a big fuss over explaining that she was in a better place, but Chelsea had barely known her, so it wasn't much of a loss really.

  ***

  'Right, thanks. The plane landed on time at four o'clock. OK, thanks. You've been very helpful.' Morton hung up the phone, then swore loudly. Edwin Murphy's alibi checked out.

  But Morton couldn't shake the niggling doubt that screamed that Murphy was shifty. You can't fake being mid-Atlantic though. The stewardess even remembered the slimy git hitting on her.

  Murphy's finances didn't turn up much either. The accounts were frozen pending probate as joint accounts, and there were no withdrawals out of the ordinary. It was the usual hodgepodge of car payments, mortgage interest and shopping. If he had hired a professional then either he had got one hell of a deal and paid with pocket change, or he had thousands stashed away from some unknown source that had never touched the family finances.

  Morton didn't think either was likely, and he reluctantly scrubbed Edwin Murphy as a suspect.

  If he didn't kill her, or pay someone else to, then he couldn't be prosecuted.

  ***

  Edwin was feeling smug. He was in jail, but that was the best place for him that night. He had pondered on the best alibi money could buy, and thought about buying a whole bar a drink or something else that would get him remembered, but it was out of character and would look desperate.

  He'd settled on letting the police provide him with the alibi. He went to a pub in Red Lion Street in Camden. He started off gentle, and then ramped up the booze after dinner. Edwin was obnoxious, but all the time he was buying doubles every five minutes, the landlady didn't mind.

  Edwin challenged every man in sight to a drinking contest. Eventually one took him up on his offer. A row of Jameson's Irish whiskey shots was laid out along the bar, a road map to liver failure. The row was two thick, and each man started at opposing ends of the bar. The pretty landlady was roped in to judge, and on her word the men charged. Edwin pandered to the crowd, roaring his delight as the fiery alcohol slid down his throat.

&nb
sp; The other man was much more business-like, staying low to the bar and quickly knocking back each of his shots in quick succession. He finished first, but Edwin was having none of it.

  'Ah don't fink so, pal. You were way slowa than I were,' Edwin slurred. He had become progressively more Irish with every tot.

  'A bet's a bet, pal; £50 please, now.' The bigger man flexed his muscles, a tattoo stretching taut over his left biceps.

  'Nar, dun tink so, buddy. Get lost.'

  Seconds later fists were flying and the landlady was on the phone to the cops. Holborn Police Station was only a few hundred feet away and so within minutes both men found themselves in the drunk tank, its first occupants that evening.

  Chapter 13: Too Far

  Vanhi was more subtle with her alibi. She visited an old friend in the Scottish Highlands; far enough away that even flying wouldn't get her back in time to commit the crime. She made sure she took public transport. It would be impossible for a lone woman on foot to get back to London in time to commit a murder and not be seen. Fort Augustus was so far removed from the city not only geographically but in time too. Everything seemed to be done at a slower pace, and it was small enough that any stranger was the subject of much interest.

  Vanhi took her friend out for dinner at a lovely restaurant on the pier. It was one of only three restaurants in Fort Augustus, and was by far the nicest. There were a few other parties there, but Vanhi's was the only one to stay for the entire evening enjoying themselves. By the time Vanhi collapsed into bed in the guest room at her friend's cottage she had all but forgotten that the trip was only a cover for an alibi.

  Chapter 14: Unknown Territory

  Barry had never killed anyone before. He'd been in a few fights, but that was about it. He wondered how he should do it. He discounted poison straight away. He didn't have the know-how, and even if he did it just seemed too cowardly.

  Barry knew his target lived in Brixton. It wasn't as rough as it had once been, but it was still pretty bad. Barry agreed to carry out the hit on the Sunday evening so the other guy could get an alibi in place. It hadn't taken long to find the target's house the previous week, and he'd sat watching the building for a while.

  Quite a few people were coming and going. They were mostly in their late teens to early twenties, and although there were two flats in the maisonette he doubted they were all visiting the elderly lady on the ground floor.

  It was probably drugs. The guys coming and going looked like addicts. Barry wondered if he was getting mixed up in something gang-related. The guy might just be dealing on someone else's patch. Barry wasn't the judge and jury though, he was just the hired gun. He was doing as he was told, not choosing his victim himself. He mentally passed the buck, and thought about which weapon to use. Guns were too loud, even with a silencer. The cops would come running in no time.

  Barry settled on a knife. It was sharp, cheap and disposable. The one he was going to use had been a present when he'd moved into his current flat, and it hadn't yet made it out of the box.

  Barry put a disposable glove on his right hand and used the newly gloved hand to put the knife inside his jacket. He'd put a wedge of paper inside to line the pocket so the knife wouldn't slip straight through.

  When it came time to head out to do the deed, Barry felt self-conscious. It wasn't just the knife either, he felt conspicuous being one of the few white faces in Brixton, walking alone through the rough end of town. His bald spot shone under the streetlamps, practically a beacon for potential muggers.

  He made it to the target's property without incident, and rapped smartly on the door with his knuckles. There was no doorbell.

  Heavy feet could be heard stomping inside the house, growing progressively louder until the door swung open with a loud creak.

  Barry didn't want any prying eyes seeing him carry out the hit, so he had to get inside.

  'Hi, my mate said you might help a fella out?' Barry spoke quickly, trying to throw a hint of desperation into his tone, as if he needed a hit.

  The man nodded, looked him up and down, before beckoning him in and bounding up the stairs just inside the door.

  Barry followed him.

  'What can I do ya for?' the man asked.

  Barry could have rushed him straight away, but he was a coward and wanted to minimise the chance of the victim defending himself.

  'An eighth of Moroccan black.' He didn't know what kind of drug he was asking for but he had heard it in a movie.

  'Last of the big spenders, eh?' the big man chuckled and turned around to fish in a drawer. It was now or never, and Barry leapt forward, pulling the gloved hand from his pocket and thrusting the knife towards his victim. The knife cut into his back as if it was butter, sticking there. Barry yanked the knife from its resting place and rammed it back in, again and again in quick succession. On the last thrust he ploughed the blade into the back of the man's neck. Blood was everywhere, and it was clear the man would bleed out.

  Barry removed his outer clothing, stripping down to his shorts and vest. He tucked his bloodstained clothes into his rucksack and left Emanuel to die.

  ***

  The night before the funeral, Eleanor's parents arrived in London. Edwin had rashly offered them use of the guestroom, which they had gladly accepted. When they rang the doorbell, Edwin wondered how he would ever look them in the eye, but his guilt disappeared as he took a perverse pleasure in playing nice.

  He was finally free. He had his little girl, and she wouldn't be dragged halfway round the world at the whim of her mother. He also owned the house now. It had been in joint names, and the right of survivorship applied. This meant that at the moment of Eleanor's death, he became the sole owner of 51 Belgrave Square. It would be his free and clear soon enough, as the life insurance policy would pay off the remainder of the mortgage.

  Edwin wouldn't get the money Eleanor had in her own bank account. Her will meant that money would go into a trust for Chelsea. It was of little consequence to Edwin.

  The funeral arrangements had been left to Edwin, as her parents felt it was a husband's duty. He had half considered getting his brother-in-law to assist, but figured it would be easier to do it without Mark turning it into another excuse to hit the booze.

  Eleanor hadn't left funeral instructions. Of course she hadn't, she hadn't expected to die anytime soon. He chose an ornate oak casket, not a cheap one. He played every bit the part of the mourning husband. Flowers, bagpipes and the church at which they had got married were soon booked in a flurry of open wallets, the kind Edwin hadn't been able to indulge in for a while.

  Before he knew it the funeral was upon them; Eleanor's extended family were soon sitting in contemplative silence in the back of a procession of black town cars.

  The funeral had a large number of attendees. It seems murder brings all sorts of acquaintances out of the woodwork. School friends, teachers, even a hairdresser or two. They all turned out to pay their respects to the late Eleanor Murphy.

  Edwin thought few remembered her accurately. The eulogies from Eleanor's parents and her best friends were heart-warming, but it was little Chelsea standing up to speak that had every eye in the room damp.

  'My Daddy says Mummy has gone to a better place. I know she didn't want to go, because she loves me so much. I don't want her to go either, but I guess God thinks he waited long enough. I know Mummy will be watching over us, and I'll miss her every day, but Daddy says she's gone somewhere no one can hurt her anymore. I love you, Mummy.'

  Edwin was the last to deliver his eulogy, and he was frank about the difficulties that there had been in their marriage, and closed with his regrets that he never got the chance to put things right.

  ***

  Cause of death took no time at all to establish. Emanuel Richard bled out after being stabbed multiple times. That much could be established on-site.

  The old lady downstairs had rung environmental health when she first smelt the decomposition, and they had in turn called in t
he police.

  As the whole flat was a crime scene it was quickly sealed off, and an officer was posted at the door. Morton was forced to wear a plastic coverall before he could enter the scene. It covered Morton from head to toes, and prevented him contaminating the crime scene.

  'No matter how many times I wear one of these I never get used to it,' he moaned half-heartedly.

  The pathologist grinned. 'It's like wearing a giant condom.'

  Morton flipped a V at the doctor, and gestured at the body.

  'What do you think, Doc? Our vic stiff someone on a drug deal?' Crime scene techs had found cocaine, methamphetamine and marijuana stashed inside the downstairs toilet. Robbery didn't appear to be the motive: the man still had his wallet. Morton read aloud from the man's driver’s licence.

  'Emanuel Richard. Sounds familiar.' Morton had heard the name before, but he couldn't quite place it. He made a mental note to ask narcotics when he got back to New Scotland Yard.

  'Get trace from around the wound. It's not uncommon to get nicked when using a knife to stab someone. Any sign of the knife itself?'

  'Nope, nothing. The killer must have taken it with him. Chances are he'd be covered in blood too – there's plenty on the floor, but the contact spray would have at least spattered the attacker as well. Local CCTV might be able to pick something up there.'

  Chapter 15: Patsy

  Anthony Duvall had been a university student when the bust went down, and he took the rap for another's crime.

  He was new in Portsmouth, having transferred to the city's university for the final year of his BA in International Relations. His finances weren't in great shape, and the opportunity had seemed like a godsend. It had never crossed his mind that anything dodgy was involved. The man who hired him, Jake, was a doctoral candidate within the School of Social Historical and Literary Studies. He'd seemed like an upstanding guy, and when he said he needed a parcel picked up for a birthday present, nothing had struck Ant as being out of the ordinary. As Ant understood it, Jake was only a few days away from a submissions deadline before his viva voce, and he didn't have time to travel up to Liverpool to pick up the parcel.