The DCI Morton Box Set

by Sean Campbell

  'Sir, HR put me on desk duty after I was injured last month.' Morton indicated his leg, where a scar would have been visible had he not been wearing dark trousers.

  'Get back to work. I need an experienced hand in charge, and you're it. Tell HR to pull a sergeant if they need someone to work the desks.' With that, the conversation was over. Morton practically skipped as he headed to the Director of Human Resources' office to relay the news. Unsurprisingly he wasn't impressed.

  'You aren't fit for duty!' he practically screeched when he heard the order.

  'Sorry, sir, but duty calls.' Morton suppressed the grin that wanted to remain plastered across his rugged features.

  'Fine, but take WPC Stevenson along with you at all times. No excuses. She sticks on you like a limpet, and if you lose a criminal because you aren't fast enough I'll have your badge, and your pension. Do I make myself clear?' The director's tone suggested the threat was deadly serious.

  'Yes, sir!' His hand snapped to his face in a sharp salute. He'd have to sell Sarah on his return to active duty, but then the Superintendent had been most insistent. He was back.

  ***

  His first morning back and his office had already been invaded by the time he had grabbed his morning coffee. A well-dressed gentleman was sat in his chair, his feet up on his desk, well-polished Italian loafers marking the wood. He bolted upright as Morton entered, extending a manicured hand in greeting.

  'Who are you?' Morton demanded, ignoring the outstretched hand.

  'Michael Burrows. Financial Services Authority.'

  Morton winced. It explained the suit. The man was probably paid twice as much as him, but still thought of him as a colleague.

  'What are you doing abusing my chair?'

  'Sorry about that, bad habit. I believe one of your cases may be tied up with one of mine.'

  'I doubt it. I'm a murder investigator.'

  'I know that. I believe you are investigating the death of a Mr Peter Sugden. He was found floating in the Thames.'

  'That case is closed.' Morton knew that much had changed while he was out of action. He still had a huge number of cases to catch up on, once he had his office back.

  'Oh. Well, just to satiate your curiosity I'll tell you anyway. Sugden was under investigation for insider trading.'

  'Wasn't curious, and could have guessed as much. You are FSA after all. Now, can I have my office back?' Morton had enough live cases without getting bogged down in the closed ones.

  'Don't say I didn't try and be courteous.' The man turned up his nose, grabbed a leather briefcase at his feet that Morton hadn't noticed, and left.

  Chapter 40: To Sea

  Pierre had seen Barry get on the ferry after him. It was an LD Lines service, and should take a little less than five hours to get to Le Havre. Pierre knew that the kill would take mere minutes, and he wanted to make sure that the execution took place towards the end of the voyage to minimise the chances someone would find the body. He needed to be off the ship by the time that happened.

  It was a shame that it was such a small ferry. Barry had not paid the premium for a private cabin, so the possibility of simply killing him there was out of the question. Similarly the cabin Pierre had rented was a no-go as it would lead straight back to him. Instead Barry would need to be ditched somewhere that no one could potentially find him.

  Pierre was fortunate that Barry had chosen a place so early to spend the voyage. The Dirty Duck bar had a 24-hour licence, and served alcohol to the many travellers from the moment they disembarked from Portsmouth. Barry had made a beeline straight for the bar, and was quietly sipping a solitary pint washed down with a bag of crisps. It was clear to Pierre that he was trying to keep his outlay down. His clothes were peppered with crumples, and he hadn't shaved for at least a week. The other customers were avoiding sitting too close to him, despite competition for stools at the bar which led Pierre to deduce he probably smelled as bad as he looked.

  As Barry tucked into his crisps, Pierre took a seat in the back of the mock pub. He was dressed conservatively in chinos and a sweater, and knew he was at home among the middle-class crowds on board that day. Peering over a copy of the Financial Times, Pierre surveyed the area. There were cabins nearby, but they were of the shared four-bunk kind. Ditching a body in there would be too risky. He could try and get Barry drunk, and then blame his lack of communication on the alcohol. It would also keep Barry suggestible. The problem was that Barry clearly couldn't afford to get drunk on his own funds, and to buy his drinks would arouse suspicion from the barman.

  Pierre would have to resort to his backup plan if he couldn't get him alone. In his pocket was a microscopic vial of taipoxin. Extracted from his personal farm of inland taipan snakes, it was the most easily concealed weapon Pierre owned. It didn't set off alarms, had no odour and was small enough never to be found even during a frisk. It took great personal effort to milk the number of snakes required, and even longer to extract the taipoxin by gel filtering it, and then using a process called electrophoresis to disperse the unnecessary particles in the raw venom. At the dose contained within Pierre's pocket the venom would, within minutes, stop the victim's producing acetylcholine, the neurotransmitter needed to move muscles. In short, the victim's muscles would all cease to function, including his heart.

  The plan was pretty simple. As it was a five-hour journey it was likely that Barry would go to use the bathroom. When he did, Pierre would inject him with taipoxin using a needle-free delivery system. A stream of high-pressure liquid would deliver the taipoxin in less than a second, so all Pierre would need to do is brush past him to inject him. He would never see it coming.

  It took over an hour before Barry's bladder got the better of him, and when it did it was sudden. He bolted round the corner from the bar for the disabled bathroom, which had been left unlocked.

  Pierre didn't follow immediately. Instead he looked in his bag, in which he stored numerous items that might come in handy. One of the items he was carrying was a Radar key that would lock the disabled bathroom door. Pierre slid out of his seat, and stretched languorously before heading towards the corridor. It was empty, and Pierre knew that the moment for him to strike had come.

  He waited outside the bathroom, nonchalantly pretending to look out of the porthole at the view. When he heard the door behind him he turned, quickly pulling Barry with his right hand, forcing him back into the bathroom before he could move to go back to the bar. With his left he injected Barry with the taipoxin. Immediately Barry's limbs began to go slack. Even with the best medical care in the world he would never survive now. Pierre cast him to the floor. He wouldn't be able to get up any time soon. He tried to rasp a question.

  Pierre leant in to hear him, not fearing a surprise attack as he knew Barry's muscles would not respond to his commands.

  'Why?' Barry rasped.

  Pierre turned his hands upside down in an 'I don't know' gesture. He had to get away quickly. He applied a line of superglue to the inside of the doorframe, closed the door and locked it with his Radar key. He doubted anyone else on board had one of the keys issued to the disabled, but the line of glue was an extra precaution. Any casual user of the bathroom would simply use another bathroom. By the time Barry was discovered the ship would have pulled into Le Havre.

  A few hours later Pierre casually strolled onto the dock, flashed his fake identification and soon found himself once again on familiar French soil.

  ***

  'Damnit!' Morton cursed. He still couldn't sleep. The visit from the berk from the Financial Services Authority had rattled something loose in his brain. He couldn't for the life of him work out what, but his subconscious was on to something, he just knew it. It happened every now and again. His mind stumbled over something, but he couldn't consciously put two and two together, yet.

  He had done as he always did when his neurons were on overload, and gently eased out of bed, careful not to disturb Sarah. He'd tiptoed down the hallway to the airing cupboa
rd and dug out an old blanket before trying to get back to sleep on the sofa. Despite his best efforts, his brain wouldn't let him sleep. At half five in the morning he decided that enough was enough. He dressed quickly, grabbed a bagel and headed in to work.

  Security was surprised to see him pulling up in his Audi a little after six. It wasn't unheard of for a junior policeman to put in the long hours to try and climb the slippery pole, but Inspector Morton most certainly didn't need to. Sure, he had come in early before when paged, but security got a copy of all page requests to make sure they let them in unhindered.

  'Couldn't sleep, Bill. Thought I may as well make myself useful,' Morton said, rolling down his windows as he approached a gate.

  'No need to explain yourself to me, boss. You have a good day now.' Bill had a slightly nasal twang, but he was a mild-mannered chap, and had been serving almost as long as Morton.

  His Audi A4 parked in the spot marked 'Chief Inspector Morton', he ascended the stairs with a vigour belying his advancing years, and settled himself with a mug of Peruvian coffee and a digestive biscuit.

  What he was looking for had to be in the file. It had to be something he'd already read. He read quietly to himself, thinking aloud.

  'Mr Peter Sugden had been found in the Thames, a drowning victim. His body had been tracked back to the point he entered the Thames, where CCTV showed he was thrown in by a man acting in self-defence.'

  It was a sparse case summary at best. Morton flicked on his computer monitor, and brought up the electronic case file. The CCTV would be copied there digitally, and he wanted to see how the man had died.

  He saw him bumbling down the road towards the camera, before attacking a man who flipped him over the barrier. It was indeed self-defence.

  'Holy shit.' Morton spotted the man who he was attacking. It was none other than Barry Fitzgerald. His self-defence death and his person of interest in another death case were linked.

  ***

  'Shit!' Ant exclaimed. 1332 wasn't the code for the gate. The key looked fine, the logo matched the Kennington branch of the StoreCo building he was outside of, but either he'd been given the wrong code, or the code had been changed since the night of the fire.

  He walked away from the gate. It would look odd if he just loitered. He'd have to wait for someone else to come by and simply tailgate them inside. It did mean he'd probably have to come back during a busier period rather than take advantage of the 24/7 access, but it was worth a shot. If the money was worth killing over, it wouldn't be a small sum.

  Chapter 41: France

  With a scream she let her mop clatter to the floor. Now she knew why the door had been jammed.

  'Merde!' the voice of the handyman who had unjammed the door came from behind her. He quickly shooed her away, closed the door and radioed for port security. Then he stood guard by the door to prevent anyone else entering the crime scene. He knew as much from watching crime investigation programs on television. Now all he had to do was wait for the gendarmerie.

  ***

  The gendarmerie arrived quickly, and relieved the handyman. A medical examiner was called from the local institut médico-légal, the French equivalent of the Coroner's Office.

  'D’origine criminelle?' The gendarmerie demanded to know if it was murder. A shrug was the only response they got. There were no external injuries, but without knowing the dead man's medical history it would be difficult to make a call until laboratory tests had been conducted.

  What was obvious was his nationality, as his passport was in his back pocket along with a wallet and a mobile phone. Clearly if it was murder the killer had not deigned to rob him. The British police would be informed of course, and there would undoubtedly be an argument over jurisdiction, but for now the French would begin the investigation into the death of Barry Fitzgerald.

  ***

  The StoreCo had peak traffic at the weekends, with numerous customers coming and going, unloading their wares. It didn't take Ant long to piggyback his way in. All it took was for him to approach another punter, and offer to help them unload their furniture. Job done, he was inside the property and could go in search of locker 146. He had the key, but didn't know how the property was laid out.

  After exploring the numbers passed as he helped unload a sofa, Ant noticed that the numbers on the larger storage units he passed were all in single or double digits. Eventually he realised that the smaller units were towards the front of the warehouse. Away from the big yellow-fronted doors of the large units the corridors narrowed. These smaller units were more akin to broom cupboards than the garage-like spaces he had just seen. Instead of a generous loading bay and complimentary forklift truck access, the corridors offered more secure storage. CCTV was obvious throughout the area, and the locker numbers soon ascended above one hundred.

  A short way on, locker 146 came into view. It was one of the smallest units, a half-height locker that could fit little in. He leant casually against the wall nearby, fishing in his pocket for the key. The key seemed to fit in, and Ant turned it with bated breath. With a click the lock swung downwards, and Ant was allowed entry to the locker.

  'Fuck.'

  It was empty.

  Chapter 42: Like Old Times

  'The body of Barry Fitzgerald, a British man wanted by the Metropolitan Police in conjunction with an active murder investigation, was found today aboard the Nordic Giant, a ferry on the popular Portsmouth to Le Havre route. The French authorities are stymied as to the method of his death, as the body is in pristine condition and he had no known previous health problems. Our reporter was refused access to the morgue...'

  Edwin felt the weight of the world lift from his shoulders as his eyes traversed the article on page five of The Impartial. The last living link to him was gone. It had taken a professional to remove him, but it had been done. The loop of kills wasn't closed yet, but it didn't matter. Edwin was home free.

  Edwin was curious as to how Barry had died, but then anyone who read The Impartial’s article would be. No visible signs of trauma, and an otherwise healthy man found dead in a sealed toilet on an international ferry. The press would be running articles speculating for months. They might never know how or why he died.

  He would now be able to put in an insurance claim without worrying that the police or the insurance company might flag it up. He was the rightful beneficiary, and the proceeds would clear the mortgage on the house as well as providing a valuable lump sum. Edwin chuckled. It was astonishing to think that Eleanor's prudence in life had essentially provided a bounty on her head. By insuring herself she incentivised him to kill her. The policy would pay out fairly easily. Edwin had already been formally cleared by the police and had a solid alibi, and the policy was mature rather than a recently taken-out policy. It would be a prudent killer who waited over a decade to collect on the life insurance payment. Besides, in Edwin's mind he wasn't claiming money he wasn't entitled to, he was simply expediting the process.

  ***

  The cases just didn't add up. The work Rosenburg had done was by the book, if not particularly imaginative. Barry Fitzgerald was murdered by persons unknown on a ferry leaving the country mere days after a rich banker from the suburbs tried to kill him and fell to his death. The same suspect was wanted in connection with an earlier death of a barmaid from North London.

  It just seemed so random. The only clue was the warning from the Financial Services Authority. It had to be about money. No other motive could connect such disparate persons together. If Sugden was involved in insider trading then Fitzgerald had to know about it in order for Sugden to try and kill him. It was logical to assume therefore that the eventual murderer of Mr Barry Fitzgerald was in some way linked to Sugden – perhaps another financier linked to the active FSA investigation – but how did Barry link to Vanhi Deepak? It could be pure coincidence. The evidence against him was purely circumstantial. Then again, he had attempted to flee when Morton had attempted to question him.

  Morton shook his hea
d; it was enough to give him a headache. He reached inside his desk and withdrew a packet of morphine tablets. They were supposed to be for his leg, but his head was killing him. It could simply be that Barry assumed the police wanted him in connection not with Miss Deepak, but with the financial crime, in which case his presence in the alley of the One Eyed Dog could be the result of his regular patronage of the establishment. That begged the question of why he thought fleeing the country would assist in evading the Financial Services Authority. The French had confirmed that the body on the ferry was him, so he had to be heading to France to meet someone. What was the connection?

  Without more to go on, Morton could only guess. Hopefully the Fitzgerald body would yield some sort of a clue. As the most recent case it was the hottest, the most likely to be solved quickly. The killer's identity wasn't a complete mystery. They were one of the finite number of passengers and crew on board the Nordic Giant. There couldn't be that many on board with a link to Peter Sugden or his associates. Perhaps Morton had been rash in dismissing the dandy from the FSA. It might be fruitful to cross reference the passenger manifest with those involved in their investigation.

  ***

  It was a Thursday when the third gold-embossed envelope landed on the doormat of Mrs Sugden.

  It was a similar invitation to the first one, but much less formal and far more heartfelt.

  'Dear Mrs Sugden,

  His Excellency Qadi Qumas and his exalted wife will be holding a dinner party for the village residents the coming Saturday. They would be delighted if you would honour them by agreeing to attend as the guest of honour. They appreciate if you wish to decline, but sincerely hope to see you.

  Warmest regards,

  Qadi Qumas.'

  It wasn't long before his wife turned up to chase the invitation in person. She was deeply concerned at Mrs Sugden's growing isolation. It was, in her opinion, too easy to turn inwards upon the death of a loved one, and by reaching out and offering her support she might be able to help Mrs Sugden at a difficult time. It was hard for Mrs Sugden to decline. The family had been there to support her when her own had not. She had scarcely seen anyone other than her sister, and even then the visits were becoming more fleeting.