Chapter 10: Coming Clean
The thirty-third game of solitaire in a row saw Morton’s average time dip below a minute for the first time in forever. He sighed as the window tempted him to play game number thirty-four. Desk duty just wasn’t for him. He knew others who did it much better. They seemed to revel in lazy morning coffees, plush office chairs, and getting home to see the family every evening.
The truth was, he hated teaching. He enjoyed having taught, knowing he had made a difference to young detectives, but the actual teaching itself was so boring. He’d rather have a prostate exam than teach a bunch of overgrown children how to solve crimes, and that was a task he’d been putting off for as long as was humanly possible.
The pile of cold cases on the corner of his desk was a constant reminder of what he craved. He told everyone he wanted to bring justice, to serve the community, to protect those he loved from those who would harm them. All that was true.
But his real passion, the thing that made him excited to stand in the rain at five in the morning to inspect a crime scene, was the challenge. There was a satisfaction to being the better man that he could find nowhere else. To take the puzzle, to solve it faster than anyone else: this was his raison d’être.
A shadow loomed in the hallway, and his office door swung open a moment later.
‘Can I come in?’ Rafferty asked. She was carrying a tray of doughnuts that she slid across the desk as she sat down. Morton knew instantly that it was a peace offering.
‘Well, I do have some important business to attend to,’ he said as he quickly closed his card game. ‘But I guess I can spare you a few minutes. What’s up?’
‘I don’t know if you know where I’ve been this week–’
‘Of course I do,’ Morton said, his eyes twinkling. ‘It doesn’t take a genius to realise that if you bench one detective, another is needed to take his place. I assume congratulations are in order.’
Rafferty sat there slack-jawed. ‘Err, yeah, thanks.’
‘And I see you’ve poached Detective Inspector Ayala,’ he said with a grin. ‘Though you may regret that one.’
‘Actually, he was what I wanted to talk to you about. He’s been assigned to me by Silverman, and he won’t play ball. He’s pretending to be sick.’
‘Hmm,’ Morton mused. ‘That makes two of us he isn’t working for. I’ve been left to teach without him. I’m afraid I can’t force Bertram to do anything. He’ll either give up and act like an adult eventually, or he’ll get called into Silverman’s office. You’ll just have to let nature run its course there.’
Rafferty leant forward to help herself to one of the doughnuts.
‘Oi! Not the salted caramel, please.’
She withdrew guiltily, clutching at a plain glazed ring doughnut instead. She nibbled it while Morton eyed her cautiously.
‘You’re not here about Ayala. What’s the problem?’
‘I can’t crack this case. Angela King was shot at short range in the chest in an alleyway. The killer was close enough to leave gunshot residue blowback all over her. Nobody saw a thing, and there’s literally no physical evidence.’
Morton’s brow furrowed into a frown. ‘None? Not even a bullet?’
‘Lost it,’ Rafferty said, hanging her head. ‘The vic was taken off the scene alive and died on the table. I searched the crime scene for hours, the surgical team that tried to save her swears they never removed a bullet, and Chiswick didn’t find any sign of one inside her at the autopsy.’
‘That’s a pretty major balls-up. I’d love to tell you that you can blame it on someone else, but the blame is going to land in your lap on this one. Welcome to being in charge.’
Morton gave her a crooked grin. He’d been there many a time. In any other line of work, the shit rolled downhill. In the Met, the buck stopped with the senior investigating officer. That, Morton suspected, was why Ayala had been passed over in favour of Rafferty. She could handle the guilt, while Bertram would have fallen to pieces and begun yelling that it was everyone else’s fault by now.
‘I figured,’ Rafferty said. ‘But if I can solve the case, all will be forgiven, right?’
Morton chucked. ‘That’s how it’s worked for me... up until Silverman took charge, anyway.’
‘No word on when she’ll let you out of the doghouse?’
‘When I retire?’ Morton said. ‘She’s never going to forgive me. There’s no earning redemption in her eyes.’
‘Then I’m doubly motivated to solve this case before she finds out I’m missing a bullet. I think it’s the spouse, but he has a rock-solid alibi.’
Morton stared at her. ‘How solid?’ he asked. He knew full well how the most convincing alibi could turn out to be less than the complete truth.
‘We’re his alibi. The police, that is.’
‘We’re his alibi? Is he a criminal? Or one of us?’ Morton asked.
‘Yes,’ Rafferty said with a grin. ‘He’s called Brian King. His wife was Angela King, the lady murdered up by the Brompton Road last Saturday.’
‘Brian King?’ Morton echoed. He turned to his computer and began to click through the Met’s personnel records. ‘I thought so. He’s one of Xander’s boys.’
‘Yep. And Xander is hiding behind the rule book. He let King bring in a police union rep, Kirk Addison.’
‘Nice guy,’ Morton said.
‘Nice or not, he shut down my interview.’
‘So, work off-book. There’s nothing stopping you having a quiet beer with Xander later this evening, is there?’
‘I wouldn’t even know how to get hold of him.’
‘Hmm... I can’t really help you with that, being on desk duty and all, but I’m going to take a short walk for some fresh air, and whoops, look at that, I’ve left my phone unlocked on my desk. Catch you later!’
Rafferty beamed. ‘See you, boss.’
As Morton left the room, he saw Rafferty’s reflection in the window as she leant over his desk to nab his mobile phone. Sometimes, just sometimes, the rules were made to be broken.
Chapter 11: Down Low
Xander was at his usual table in the back of the Nag’s Head when Rafferty found him, looking visibly put out at the intrusion. She had borrowed Morton’s work mobile to request the meeting at a couple of hours’ notice, and then put the phone back before Morton returned.
The pub was nearly empty, which was typical of a Wednesday evening. It was a policeman’s pub that filled up after work and emptied as the officers headed home after a long day. After a quick scout around the bar to make sure that Brian King was not loitering in earshot, Rafferty set her tankard of Guinness beside Xander’s and perched herself atop a rickety stool.
‘So, you’re Morton’s protégé,’ Xander said flatly over a sip of his Guinness. A thin strip of foam lined his upper lip, and he licked it with a satisfied smack. ‘He’s never asked me to meet with one of his lot before. Why’s he not here himself?’
Damn, he was quick off the mark. She ignored the question and offered a handshake. ‘Ashley Rafferty,’ she said.
‘Alexander Thompson. Everyone calls me Xander. Morton tells me you want to know about one of my guys.’
She nodded. ‘Brian King.’
‘Arsehole,’ Xander offered immediately. ‘Arrogant prick who thinks he’s God’s gift to marksmanship, which, annoyingly, he probably is. Not a cold-blooded killer. You’re looking at the wrong man.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Gut,’ Xander said. ‘I’ve known him for years, and I’m an excellent judge of character. Gotta be, in my line of work.’
‘Which line?’
‘Did Morton not tell you this? I’m Serious Organised Crime. Morton and I knew each other back in our undercover days. Doing what we did, you get a feel for people, and I don’t think Brian King has the cojones to off his missus.’
Rafferty looked at Xander curiously. His was a face that had seen far too much. There were deep crow’s feet around his ey
es, and his brow was furrowed like the Mariana Trench.
‘Do you think he wanted her dead?’
‘I don’t think he’s as cracked up about it as he should be. He didn’t want to take bereavement leave, believe it or not. He wanted to work, to keep busy. Said he’d rather be distracted than sit in the empty home they bought together. Not that I told you that.’ Xander drained his glass and looked at Rafferty expectantly.
‘One more?’ Rafferty asked.
‘At least,’ Xander said with a grin that showed off yellow nicotine-stained teeth. He looked how Rafferty imagined Morton might have looked had he stayed undercover and never met Sarah.
She fetched a fresh Guinness from the bar. By the time she returned, Xander was tapping away at his mobile.
‘Here,’ he said, shoving his screen in her face. ‘This is what you want to look at. There are at least six professional killers on the loose in London that we know, and there could be more. If your girl was killed by a pro, chances are it was one of these guys.’
Rafferty quickly scanned the list. She recognised the first name there, the ominously unnamed Frenchman rumoured to be in the employ of the Bakowski Crime Syndicate, but the rest were complete blanks. ‘Can you tell me any more about these guys?’
‘I’m afraid not, but I know a man who can. Rocko Mulhall. He’s one of mine, and he’s undercover, so you’ll have to go plain clothes for the meet. If you’re looking for a contract killer, Rocko’s the man to point you in the right direction.’
***
It didn’t matter how nice he’d been to Rafferty. Morton was pissed. In the course of a few months, he’d gone from leading the top-rated murder investigation team in London to playing babysitter to a bunch of feckless new detectives who couldn’t find their arses from their elbows if given a map.
Silverman was dismantling his team one by one. First, Mayberry had gone AWOL, not that Morton could blame him. Who could teach a class while suffering such severe aphasia that he could barely stammer out a sentence? Then it was Rafferty, his hand-poached detective. And now it was Ayala too.
Ayala was like one of those trees that stood upright for many years and then fell down in a storm so it was all twisted and gnarly. It was ugly, but it was Morton’s, and he wanted Ayala back.
He huffed his way up the six flights of stairs to the chief’s office, letting his anger carry him up. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. This was his team, his life’s work, his legacy, and, though he’d never say it to Rafferty, she just wasn’t ready for her own team. Less than a week into her first investigation, and she had already lost a key piece of evidence. The defence solicitors would have a field day with that one.
‘Hey!’ a voice called out. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
He ignored the protests of Silverman’s secretary as he barrelled down the hallway. He slammed a fist against the door, bursting it open, and stared Silverman down.
‘Ah, David,’ Silverman said with a tight-lipped smirk. ‘I thought you might show up. Have a seat.’
Expecting me? Morton glared. Silverman had always been able to get under his skin. He remained standing, choosing to lean against the seat instead. Silverman looked entirely unsurprised.
‘Here to thank me for giving your protégé a shot at her own case?’ Silverman said. ‘I was expecting flowers or chocolates, but something tells me you’re not feeling like much of a gentleman today.’
‘You poached my entire team.’
‘Yes. Yes, I did. The incident on the Westferry Road was your fault, not theirs. I refuse to punish your subordinates for your failure. Or would you have me condemn three promising careers so they can go down with your ship?’
Acid rose up in the pit of Morton’s stomach. He had been thinking of his own career and hadn’t stopped to consider that moving on might be in his team’s best interest. Had he betrayed their trust by coming in today?
Silverman was revelling in his confusion. ‘What’s the matter, David? Cat got your tongue?’
Her mirth sent a shiver down his spine. She was enjoying this.
He stood up straight and said with a steely determination, ‘You benched the best murder investigation team in the Met, and you’ve promoted my juniors too far, too fast. Rafferty may have the potential to be one of the best detectives in the force, but she isn’t there yet. Don’t pretend you were doing her a favour. This isn’t about advancing her career. It’s about humiliating me. I demand you take me off desk duty. Let me assist Rafferty with her first case. She can take lead, but she needs a voice of experience behind her. Justice demands that much.’
‘Request denied,’ Silverman said. ‘Now, if you’re quite done ranting, I’ve got an official meeting in the next ten minutes. Besides, don’t you have a lesson to prep or something?’
Morton stomped from Silverman’s office with all the grace of a raging bull. This was all going to end in tears.
***
The drudge work always fell to Mayberry. Ever since the accident that had left him with aphasia, he hadn’t been much good for anything else, but this he was really good at. His IT skills were coming on in leaps and bounds, and, after four years on the force, he knew the ins and outs of every major CCTV network in London. There were hundreds of them, from small private cameras outside local corner shops right up to the eye-in-the-sky cameras run by the biggest London councils.
With Brodie’s help, Mayberry had everything at his fingertips. Normally. This time, the CCTV footage he was after belonged to a local silverware store. Brian King had allegedly been called there to respond to an armed robbery on the night his wife was murdered. Unfortunately for him, the Chancery Lane-based company did not want to release their footage. As far as they were concerned, the occasional theft was a cost of doing business, and advertising that fact would invite more harm than it would prevent.
The crime had been an elaborate one. The would-be robber had posed as a customer to get into the vault and had then pulled a prison-style shiv which he had smuggled past the scanner. The remote CCTV service for the silverware store saw everything, put the place in lockdown, and called the police. It was a simple system, and it worked.
Except when they wiped the footage.
Mayberry had managed to secure a warrant for the hard drive platters with little difficulty. No magistrate would turn down a request when there had been such a blatant attempt to destroy evidence. Now, it was time to wait.
He watched as Brodie carefully reassembled the drive. It had been smashed into a thousand tiny fragments, but even in such a broken state, there was data to be had. Even a square millimetre of platter could hold a file, and that was what Brodie was trying to recover.
‘See, laddie? Told you I could put her back together again. Humpty Dumpty fell off a wall, and then ole Brodie came to call,’ the Scot said with a chuckle.
‘C-can you s-see f-files n-now?’ Mayberry stuttered.
‘Hold your horses, laddie. We’ve got a way to go, yet. Data storage leaves a physical trace, but the way data is encoded and then stored on a platter is proprietary. Every hard drive manufacturer has their own method, and they don’t like to share. This one’s a Western Digital, and their tech folks are always cooperative, so I’m hopeful.’
‘H-how l-long?’
‘Hours, if you’re lucky. Months, if you’re not. You want me to call you when I’m done?’
Mayberry nodded. ‘T-thanks.’
‘Don’t sweat it, laddie. Just keep the single malt coming, and we’ll get along grand.’
Chapter 12: The Meet
Hawker House was a decidedly hipster venue for a meet-up. On Fridays and Saturdays, it was a bustle of hipsters eating street food, sipping cider, and enjoying what little sunshine Canada Water had to offer.
Fortunately, Rafferty was meeting with Rocko Mulhall on a Thursday. She found him near the entrance, casually staring off into the sky with a cigarette between his fingertips.
‘Alright, love,’ he said as she app
roached. ‘Looking for a good time?’
Rafferty rolled her eyes. Rocko was every bit the younger version of Morton: brash, insecure, and hyper-masculine. He had a slight Belfast twang to his accent.
‘The colour of the day is indigo,’ Rafferty said, hoping against hope that Xander Thompson wasn’t having a laugh at her expense. It sounded ridiculous, but it did the trick. Rocko’s persona changed immediately. He snapped upright as if he’d been bent into position by a benevolent God. His previously unfocussed gaze now locked on to Rafferty with an intensity that surprised her. His eyes were a piercing bright blue with the hint of a smile lingering beneath every look. They were what many would call ‘bedroom eyes’. The cigarette dangled between long, tapered fingers.
‘What’s up? Boss man need me?’
‘Xander sent me,’ Rafferty said. ‘He told me you know the players in the professional hit market here in London. I’m investigating the death of Angela King.’
Rocko’s eyes widened. ‘Brian’s missus? She’s dead?’
‘She was shot at point blank range in an alleyway last Saturday.’
He exhaled slowly and then gave a sad shake of his head, as if he had lost a dear friend. ‘Blimey. Brian do it?’
‘Not personally.’
‘Ah, that’s why you’re here,’ Rocko said. ‘You think he had a pro do her in?’
‘Is he capable of that?’
Rocko took a long drag of his cigarette and glanced up and down the path as if he was suspicious they might no longer be alone. ‘Nah. No way. Brian’s a tight git. He’s the kinda guy who turns out the lights to save on the electricity bill. There’s no way he’d stump up the money for a kill as clean as the one you’re talking about.’
‘But these professionals exist.’
‘Of course they do,’ Rocko said. ‘You’d need connections with one of the bigger gangs just to know how to get in touch, and you’d need money, but for the right price, there’s someone who’ll do pretty much anything.’
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 55
