Chapter 31: Sunrise
Edwin's brother-in-law turned up at five o'clock the next morning, banging on the doors. Edwin was not amused. He could catch up on the sleep; he had all day to do that. The problem was that the neighbours might hear. It was unseemly to have night-time visitors in Belgrave Square, especially ones who bang doors loudly at such an ungodly hour.
Edwin was tempted to tell him to get lost. He wasn't his brother after all, but he had been there for Edwin when he'd lost his job, and could be relied upon for babysitting services occasionally.
Knowing he might regret it, Edwin unbolted the French doors, and allowed him in. Mark had always been a pest, for as long as Edwin had known Eleanor. He was unreliable, lazy and had an addictive personality, but somehow he was still a loveable rogue. His partying ways made Edwin feel young again, and he always invited Edwin on nights out. Many a bottle had disappeared in an orgy of drink-induced partying, and he had always managed to get Edwin home no matter how drunk he personally was.
This time, it was he who needed help. He was in withdrawal. Mark had been clean, on and off, for a long time. He'd probably been addicted to every substance known to man at some point or another. Drink, drugs, even certain foods. Mark had many demons, but the current one was heroin, and if he didn't get help soon it would kill him.
'I'm ill, man,' he moaned, throwing himself onto the leather divan in the drawing room.
'Couldn't it have waited till sunrise?' Edwin was always grumpy before his morning coffee.
'I'm on the brink, I need help. Now.' It was a plea Edwin had heard a few times before, when he and Eleanor had helped put Mark into rehab.
'What do you want from me?' Edwin felt a pang of conscience. He had killed the man's sister, so it was unreasonable for him to be angry at the early intrusion.
'Help me get back into the Sunrise Centre.'
The Sunrise Centre was a secure lockdown facility. Inmates could leave at any time, but if they did they were not permitted to come back. They were reduced to a regime of exercise and a balanced diet, with group counselling every day. Mark had been there once before, and had walked out after two weeks, straight back into the welcoming arms of his dealer.
It would be difficult to get him back into the program, but Edwin knew a donation to the centre's work would open doors. The Sunrise Centre didn't charge, but it still needed to get funding from somewhere, and the government stipend was notoriously stingy.
'I can try. No guarantees,' Edwin offered, letting guilt get the better of him for the first time in months.
'Make the call, Ed. I need to get off the skag, otherwise it's going to kill me.' He was already shaking, visibly suffering from the withdrawal.
'Fine, but I can't call for a few hours. Want some breakfast?' Edwin knew he couldn't risk going back to bed until he had seen Mark safely into the hands of professionals who could deal with him.
'Bacon and eggs, fried bread, hash browns and beans please.' Withdrawal always gave Mark the munchies.
Edwin rolled his eyes, and headed for the Aga.
***
It was a logical solution, if he could persuade both parties to go along with it.
Edwin decided to communicate again with the earlier assassin – the first to answer his darknet messages – and offer a part-exchange deal. Edwin, or rather Edwin's latest contact, would do one kill for the assassin and pay him a cash surplus.
This would give Edwin two benefits. Firstly, he would be massively distanced from the kill he was paid to do, and secondly he would get the extra money.
Edwin knew his contact would pay up. He had as good as said as much. If he could now persuade the assassin then the whole plan could proceed without Edwin's being involved.
The assassin would then track down and eliminate Barry, closing the largest loophole. His contact would then complete the assassin's kill, and then Edwin would stiff his contact. The contact would then have knowledge only of the assassin, and be nothing to do with Edwin.
He typed out a message to the assassin.
'Interested in a swap? We do your kill, and you do ours.' Edwin figured he would only mention the cash if he had to.
Chapter 32: The Frenchman
The assassin was a Frenchman who went simply by Pierre, although that was not his real name. He was a professional, though you couldn't tell it just by looking at him. He was plain, even bland-looking, the sort of man you look at and then forget in an instant. He was of medium build, around five foot ten, and had no features that really stuck out. It was his job to be nobody, to be passed on the street but forgotten in a second. His entire being was consumed with pretending. He monitored his clothes, his gait, his mannerisms and his accent religiously to ensure that he stayed in the persona he had assumed. Contrary to popular belief he was not a seasoned criminal, a hard man or any of the other stereotypes his enemies thought of when they imagined him. He was meek, unassuming and dedicated to getting the job done.
With a talent for accents he could pass for any one of a dozen nationalities, and regularly did so. He had a habit of travelling in and out of countries on different passports. It was illegal of course, in most countries at least, but he did it anyway. He had been in the military when he was younger, but had been thought dead in action. It didn't take him long to realise the benefits of no longer officially existing, and his fame and fortune soon began to wax.
The message he had received was intriguing, but he knew he could get extra out of this contact. He'd already enquired about a paid hit once.
'Sounds interesting. What's in it for me?'
The messages went back and forth for a while before a deal was agreed. The assassin would go second, and on completion would be paid £5,000 cash in unmarked bills.
As it wasn't Edwin's money, he agreed.
***
Zach's condition kept on deteriorating. It would be cruel to delay it, and Yosef knew he wouldn't be able to bring himself to do it.
£5,000 seemed like a low price to pay to end his son's suffering. He had spent six of the last eight months in hospital, and that ratio was likely to increase in the future. He spent his days tanked up on a morphine drip, breathing through a respirator. He could only hear the loudest of sounds, and his sight was restricted to seeing whether the room was light or dark. It was no way to live. Yosef couldn't allow his son to suffer any longer.
'Deal, if you go first.'
***
The next cheap ferry wouldn't be for another few days, so Barry decided to lurk near the port. Portsmouth was much cheaper than London, and his remaining money stretched more easily. A B&B was costing him fifteen pounds a night. It was a bit downmarket, but he only needed somewhere to lay down his head.
The crowds along the seafront allowed him to hide effectively. No one was ever suspicious of a tourist wandering along the seafront, and there was enough seafront that he never needed to walk the same stretch twice.
His diet consisted of chips, chips and more chips. Portsmouth didn't have a huge culinary repertoire. The seafront was scattered with fish and chip shops, and at not much over a pound a bag they were hot, filling and didn't stretch the budget. There were plenty of pubs but Barry couldn't afford to avail himself of their services no matter how nice a crisp cold beer would taste in the sunshine.
He did let himself enjoy an ice cream while sitting on a pier, but it was really only an excuse to loiter without arousing suspicion. Hopefully he'd still have over a hundred pounds by the time his ferry came around.
***
Both contacts wanted the other to go first, and neither was willing to budge.
Edwin was at a loss. If neither compromised then the plan would fall to pieces. The professional would never compromise, and Edwin's other contact was just as adamant. With such a large sum of money involved he was prone to be stubborn. Ideally, one of them would have compromised and agreed to go first; that would have allowed Edwin to close any link to him without any further action.
As it stood
, Edwin needed another individual to join the mix. If they did, and were willing to go first, they could perform one of the hits, and then the second hit would fall into place. Barry would then stiff the newcomer by never carrying out his side of the deal. He could even give out the details of one of the other parties to the last of the killers. If that one then sought retribution, the only details he would have would lead him to either an elusive hit man who would be long gone, or one of the earlier dupes who had committed murder at Edwin's behest.
This would leave Edwin free and clear, as Edwin's name would never feature into the deal, and the police couldn't possibly match up the myriad London murders to find the ones that were linked. Even if they did link the last few kills, Edwin was well removed from them, as the only victim he could be concretely linked to was Eleanor, and he had been on a plane at the time of her death.
Edwin would have orchestrated a number of murders, but paid for none of them, and he had a solid alibi for all of them. It was, in Edwin's humble opinion, a stroke of genius on his part. It was no wonder the crime rate was so high when it was so easy to manipulate pawns into carrying out his orders unwittingly. It was a beautiful spider's web of criminality, in which Edwin was at the centre, but no one would ever find out.
The web was soon to be closed for good.
Chapter 33: Paper Trail
Luke Garth, the tech who had used acid etching to reveal the serial number, did not remain idle for long. The gun had been seized in a drug raid conducted by narcotics in the summer of the previous year in accordance with Code B of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, the major legislation controlling seizure of property in the UK. In total 391 guns had been seized, of a variety of calibres and types. It had been a major raid that year, and the criminal litigation was still ongoing. Pursuant to department policy, once forensic data had been gathered and independently verified the guns were sent for destruction. A C57A form was still on record for the items, but it was redundant as the owners would never be able to reclaim the guns.
David Morton had completed the correct form F103A, dated 11th December, which was required to mandate destruction of the weaponry. The guns were due to be shredded after Christmas, but had clearly gone missing after this point. The guns would have been stored in the evidence locker pending destruction, and should have been signed out to be destroyed. The correct form had been lodged for their removal, citing a civilian contractor as the point of disposal for shredding.
Luke wanted to call the company and see if the shipment had reached them, but doing so would alert them that the disappearance was being investigated. If they hadn't received an expected shipment they surely would have contacted the police, Luke reasoned. It was fair to assume therefore that someone at the recipient company, ARM Disposal UK Ltd, was involved.
Luke swivelled his chair round to face his computer terminal. Bringing up the UK's company-house search service, Webcheck, Luke typed in the details for ARM and requested a list of their directors.
'Name & Registered Office:
ARM DISPOSAL UK LTD
POST RESTANTE
10 WATERLOO PLACE
LONDON
ENGLAND
SW1Y 4AN
Company No. 907304166
Directors:
Arthur Friedrich
Jane Friedrich
Secretary:
Jane Friedrich'
Oddly enough, the address pertained to a post office collection box in the heart of London. A quick search for the directors showed that neither name brought up anyone licensed to dispose of armaments. It was time to turn over the investigation to the professionals.
Luke printed out what he had found, filled in an internal referral form that would turn over jurisdiction to the Professional Standards Department, and then headed down to deliver the documents to them personally.
***
Pierre was used to travelling, and loved to people-watch as he travelled. He had found the money in a locker at Victoria Station as promised, wrapped in an old gym bag. There was a mixture of £5, £10 and £20 notes in non-sequential numbers. After a quick check while in the disabled bathroom, Pierre put the bag back into another locker. He didn't handle cash himself, preferring to leave the administrative details to the man who could loosely be called his banker. The banker was a fixer of sorts, catering to a variety of clientele, moving money, exchanging money and occasionally rendering a service of some kind. He was a fixer, and his job was to take the money in London, and pay the same amount minus his fee of ten percent in euros back in France. It was illegal of course, but extremely lucrative. Maintaining clients in multiple countries, he simply swapped their money between them when required, and pocketed a commission from both of them for the pleasure.
He also supplied a small gun. Pierre had asked him to offset the money he was depositing against a Saturday night special, any cheap and untraceable gun that could be found at short notice. This was placed back into yet another locker to be collected by another of Pierre's lackeys.
It cost him £350, but the piece was well worth every penny. He had tracked his prey by CCTV. Unlike the police he didn't bother with warrants, simply hiring individuals who could obtain the information without asking questions. He knew that on Sunday the man would take a ferry from Portsmouth to Le Havre, taking an inside cabin for the five-hour journey.
The plan was simple. He would board the ship, kill the man in his own cabin and dump the weapon in the sea. Then he'd walk away never to be seen again. With a shipboard capacity of almost 6000 it would take the police a long time to work through who was who, and by then he'd be far away and have changed his appearance significantly. With any luck the British and French would spend so much time arguing over jurisdiction that the trail would be arctic by the time any investigation started.
Chapter 34: Hot Pursuit
The suspect still hadn't surfaced. He had been on the run for a while now, and Rosenburg suspected that he had some help. His finances showed no withdrawals, and none of the CCTV systems the police actively monitored had caught him. Rosenburg cursed. If only London had sprung for an integrated CCTV system it would be far quicker to find those the police were investigating.
'Sir, we might have to consider he has fled London,' an officer suggested gingerly.
'Maybe. Where does he have connections to?'
'Mostly the north, sir, he's lived all over Yorkshire but his heritage is mixed. He could have relatives anywhere.'
'Get on with tracking the possibilities. Call all known associates personally, and fish for information. He's got to turn up sooner or later.'
'Yes, sir.'
Rosenburg turned back to the squad room's active investigations board. He still had more work than he could possibly handle. Finding one man among the 62 million or so living on the tiny island that is the United Kingdom was easier said than done. He simply didn't have the manpower, or the computing power to keep searching indefinitely. Once thirty days had passed he could pass it to the cold case squad. At least then it wouldn't count against him in his annual review. Likewise, if he could fob it off on Interpol it would no longer be his problem. All he had to do was evidence a reasonable belief that Barry had fled the country, and he'd be out of Rosenburg's hair.
***
The letter had arrived that morning. It was addressed to David Morton, but Sarah opened it first as her husband was still asleep. It was from the human resources department, and contained an offer for early retirement. The Met was offering to top up his pension contributions as if he had been pensioned off at his normal retirement age. It was a generous offer, and Sarah knew that the girls in HR must have fought hard to get it for him. She also knew her husband would not take it. His stubborn determination had been one of the qualities she had most admired in him when they were courting. He was fiercely loyal, and he never backed down when he thought he was right, and he believed that his future was in the force. He still had potentially a decade before he needed to retire, and if he ca
rried on catching them as he had for the last few decades then his work would keep dozens of violent criminals off the streets. It wasn't something he would willingly give up in return for cash.
She'd have to take him up the letter sooner or later, but it wouldn't hurt to get him in a good mood first. She set the letter on the table, and turned on the Aga to cook him breakfast.
***
The last swap was arranged without much ado. The final piece of Edwin's puzzle fell into place. The final contact would fulfil the assassin's kill request. The assassin would then kill Barry to close the loop, and the final contact would kill for the final contact. Edwin would then cut his last contact loose, knowing that he had no information on him personally, and even if he did he wouldn't be able to turn to the police to pursue the non-performance. Edwin chuckled as he imagined that conversation. 'Hi, officer, a man stole my money when I paid him to commit murder for me, but I don't know who he is.' With any luck they might even find him a nice tight straitjacket.
Even Edwin was impressed with the deviousness of his plan. It was every inch as clever as he could have hoped, and he knew he was going to quite literally get away with murder. He allowed himself a few moments to bask in his own evil, a smug expression fixed on his features.
Edwin breathed, exhaling deeply and letting the stress of the last few weeks go out of him. It would be over soon, and he could go back to just being a dad, and maybe even take an exciting new job in Vancouver.
***
David didn't suspect a thing when his wife appeared by the bed with a cup of coffee and a large cooked breakfast. He loved to surprise her, and she occasionally reciprocated. It wasn't until he was satiated by the grease that she broached the subject of the letter.
'This came for you, dear,' she said, passing it over nonchalantly.
His eyes narrowed. It was obvious she had read it, and in hindsight the obvious bribery of the fry-up meant it was important, and that he wouldn't like the contents.
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 14
