‘What if you haven’t got money?’ Rafferty said. From what she knew of Brian King, he had just enough to live on and little more.
‘Then you’re out of luck, aren’t you?’ Rocko said in between puffs of his cigarette. ‘The cheapest pros will set you back five grand. For someone good enough to leave no evidence, add a zero. It’s a high-risk gig, and nobody wants to go to jail for sod-all money.’
***
The light in Brodie’s office flickered as he squinted at the grainy CCTV footage of Brian King on the night of his wife’s death. Despite his only having been able to assemble video fragments lasting a few seconds apiece, the CCTV was conclusive. King had been four miles away at the time of her death. He had his entire unit as alibi witnesses, and the CCTV backed him up, too. He had not murdered Angela King.
There wasn’t anything to suggest he’d hired a hit man, either. His bank accounts were nearly empty, and they had been for years. The expenditure on his credit cards matched the couple’s combined income, with little or no money left over to stash away. Brodie would bet his life that King could not have saved up enough to pay for a hit man.
Brodie had even looked for any windfalls that might explain it: bingo wins, inherited money, compensation from a lawsuit. He had found none.
And aside from a few questionably sexist emails sent to the rest of his unit, Brian King’s email account was as clean as a whistle. If there were skeletons to be found, they were buried so deep that even Brodie couldn’t find them.
Chapter 13: Brick Wall
Friday morning brought with it a sense of dread. Rafferty had had her first case for less than a week, and it was already dead in the water. Maybe Ayala had been right to say she wasn’t cut out for leadership just yet.
Rafferty trod the stairs with a heavy heart, her favourite boots clanging against the floor and reverberating loudly. She slowly ascended towards Silverman’s office. It was just gone eight o’clock, and the chief would be in at any minute. It would be easier to get the meeting over and done with while it was quiet.
Sure enough, not two minutes after Rafferty had reached the seating area outside Silverman’s office, the chief strolled out of the corridor with a newspaper tucked under her arm.
‘Detective Inspector Rafferty. To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure?’ she asked as she approached.
‘I’m here to offer my resignation, ma’am.’
Silverman surveyed her with the curiosity of a small child visiting the zoo for the first time. ‘Dear me. We’d better step inside. After you.’
Rafferty’s hands began to shake. She hastily stuffed them inside her jeans pockets as she sat down.
After taking what felt like an age to make herself comfortable and set her coffee down on her desk, Silverman said, ‘Case not going well?’
‘No,’ Rafferty said. ‘I have nothing to work with. We have no suspects, no motive, and no evidence. Angela King appears to have had no enemies, no debts, and was involved in no arguments. She wasn’t robbed, raped, or subjected to sadism. There was, as far as I can tell, no reason whatsoever for her to have been murdered. She was a model citizen. Her husband, while thoroughly dislikeable, has a rock-solid alibi backed up by CCTV footage we recovered. I would like to tender my resignation.’
‘Denied,’ Silverman said, thoroughly unperturbed by the bad news. ‘You’re not getting off that easily. If the case can’t be solved, I don’t expect you to solve it. Did you follow proper procedure?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did you document the crime scene?’
‘Yes, but–’ Rafferty stammered.
‘And did you make use of all available leads?’
‘Well, yes, but–’
‘But, nothing,’ Silverman said. ‘Morton may have given you the impression that I am an unreasonable woman. Do not let that cloud your judgement of me. All I ask is your best foot forward. Hold a press conference today, see if anyone out there knows anything. If that bears no fruit, then so be it. If you cannot solve this one, I will give you another chance with the next body that comes in.’
Rafferty’s jaw slackened. ‘Thank you. I won’t let you down.’
‘Ashley,’ Silverman said as Rafferty rose from her chair, ‘This is your last chance. If you don’t prove yourself with the next one, you’re fired.’
***
The idea of a press conference terrified Rafferty. She spent most of the morning with the media liaison team setting it up, and the remaining time before three o’clock shuffling her notes, touching up her makeup, and triple-checking that she was sufficiently presentable to appear on television.
It was a quiet news day, and the conference room filled quickly as the clock ticked towards three.
She took the lectern without ceremony, and silence fell quickly in the room. At the back, a door opened, and Morton sidled into the room. He gave her a crooked half-smile and nodded his reassurance.
It was a good thing there was a lectern between her and the rest of the room. It hid the trembling of her hands. She arranged her notes so they didn’t flutter, cleared her throat, and looked around to see if she recognised any of the journalists present. There were a few old hands whom she’d seen Morton chatting with before, but she knew none of them herself. She did recognise Brian King’s partner, Fields, lurking in the front row. She nodded acknowledgement, then stared down at her notes.
Come on, Ashley, she thought. You’ve got this.
With one deep breath, she began in earnest.
‘Today, the Metropolitan Police will provide an update on the investigation into the murder of Angela King. This investigation remains of paramount concern to the department, and all leads are being aggressively pursued. At approximately twenty-two hundred hours last Saturday night, Mrs King was shot at near-point-blank range with a small calibre weapon. She was taken to the Royal Brompton, where she died in the operating room. We are appealing for any witnesses who were in the area around the Old Brompton Road to come forward with any information they might have. It was a busy Saturday night, and we believe it is likely that there are witnesses who may have seen the murderer as they fled the crime scene.’
The room was near-silent. She expected a barrage of questions, but none were immediately forthcoming. She saw Morton give her a thumbs-up from the back of the room, and the knot in her stomach began to loosen.
‘Uh, any questions?’ she finished lamely.
A hand in the front row shot up. ‘Martin Grant, Galleon’s Reach News. Did the husband kill her?’
‘No,’ Rafferty said firmly. Fields stared from the front row as she spoke. ‘Mr Brian King was on duty at the time of the murder, and this has been confirmed by CCTV footage taken from the night. We have no reason to suspect his involvement.’
‘But didn’t he kill an unarmed child a few weeks back?’ Grant prodded again.
Rafferty saw Morton slide a finger across his throat. It was time to end the press conference before it got out of hand.
‘No comment. We’re not here today to discuss Brian King. If anyone has any further questions about Angela King’s murder, please contact the press office or find me immediately. Thank you for coming.’
She shut her microphone off and made a beeline for the exit. As she passed Morton, he whispered, ‘Well done.’
Chapter 14: Close Protection
The life of a close protection officer sounded glamorous and exciting, but for Warwick Kimmel, the exact opposite was true. His life was hours of standing by, come rain or shine, with only the briefest of moments of excitement when an opposition protestor got close enough to throw an egg or a shoe.
It didn’t help that he wouldn’t mind punching the man he was assigned to guard. His protectee, Hudson Brown, was a royal douchebag. The man offended virtually everyone he met. Lord knew how he’d managed to get himself elected to Parliament.
Warwick gave a wan smile. Maybe that was exactly where the man belonged. They all seemed to be much of a muchness these days. Big t
alk, little action, and always more cuts to the police service.
He was supposed to have a partner with him tonight so they could take brief breaks without risking Hudson Brown’s life, but nobody was dumb enough to spend their Saturday night parked up outside a townhouse near King’s Cross while the whole of London danced the night away. Except for Warwick, that was.
Two more years, he told himself; two more years. Retirement was but a brief stint of boredom away. From his seat in the front of his unmarked car, he could see the dozy old Hudson Brown pottering around in his front room. The git knew Warwick disliked him and took a perverse pleasure in the fact that his guardian would rather dance on his grave than go out for a beer with him. Hudson Brown gave a small wave as he did the ironing, then pulled the curtains shut.
‘All units, please respond. Reported torture in progress: civilians report a woman screaming in agony. Polygon Road. Repeat, all units, please respond.’
Warwick was jolted from his boredom by the radio. Polygon Road was right around the corner. This was his chance. His time to finally get to be the hero. He threw open his car door with a spryness belying his age, leapt out, and slammed it shut. With barely a backwards glance towards the man he was supposed to be guarding, Warwick sprinted into the darkness.
***
It worked. I saw the doddery old fool guarding Hudson Brown sprint off into the darkness. By the time he returned, I would be long gone, and Hudson Brown would be dead.
It had been child’s play to lure him away. One fake emergency phone call, a few snippets of screams stolen from television crime dramas, and the only barrier between me and my target had disappeared without a second thought.
There was still the house, of course. Reinforced glass, comprehensive CCTV, a ram-resistant front door, and a nervy politician who would no doubt stay safely tucked away in his ground-floor flat. I wasn’t just expecting it. I was counting on it.
The plan was beautifully simple. My van was parked a safe distance away from the cameras, well out of range. My clothes were as nondescript as they come: I looked like any other freelance courier running around London. The payload was in the boxes. I just had to get them in position, and physics would do the rest.
***
Warwick found the address in Polygon Road easily. He knew the area like the back of his hand, but when he got there, something didn’t feel right. The lights inside were off, as if nobody was home. If he’d stopped for a moment, he might have noticed the settled dust on the door handle, the post piling up just inside, or the boarded-up window upstairs.
Adrenaline coursed through him. His heart thundered in his chest. He felt alive for the first time in years, but his excitement was short-lived when his shoulder failed to break through the front door. He yelped in pain, drawing a giggle from two teenagers who were passing by. Even a courier across the street stopped to smirk. He tried again. There was a loud crack, and searing pain shot along Warwick’s shoulder. In a fog, Warwick was unsure if the crack had been the door or his shoulder.
The third try was the charm. The door gave way with a mighty heave, collapsing inwards on top of the post pile. A cloud of dust emanated from the edges of the door.
Warwick stepped inside, his ears prickling for any sign of the screaming woman, but found only silence. He crept forward in the darkness, desperate to flick the light switch but smart enough to know that if he did, he would be silhouetted against the light, an easy target for a would-be assailant.
The ground floor was deathly quiet. Cobwebs ran amok as if the home belonged only to the spiders. There was a thick showering of dust on virtually every surface. Warwick left an impression of his work shoes in the dust with every step.
He sidled towards the stairs, the least dirty part of the house. Was that a creak upstairs? Could the assailant and the girl still be here?
Warwick trod lightly as he ascended. There was a smell of iron in the area, which was no doubt the result of the rusting iron bannister. With a little tender loving care, the house could have remained a beautiful family home, but whoever owned it was decades behind on the maintenance. The ceilings were beginning to sag, the paint was peeling from the walls, and there was a damp, musky vibe that didn’t bode well.
He felt his side subconsciously and wished that he was armed. As he approached the landing, his bravery gave way to a nagging doubt that it had been a bad idea for an unarmed, aging, out of shape cop to confront a violent sadist in the dark. Flashbacks of his time in the navy danced in front of his eyes, comforting him. He had been a younger man then, but that core defiance and bravery were still somewhere deep inside him. He dredged up the last of his courage, crouched low, and made a beeline for an ornate door at the end of the corridor. He guessed he was heading for the master bedroom.
The door was ajar, and the room within was encased in darkness. Warwick readied his torch, approached the door, and took a deep breath.
With one smooth motion, he kicked the door open, flicked on the torch, and shone a beam into the room in the hope that he could temporarily blind any would-be assailant.
Empty. The last room was empty.
He picked up his radio, thumbed the on button, and called it in to dispatch. ‘False alarm. There’s nobody here. It must have been those teenagers outside playing a prank.’
And with that, Warwick’s last chance of becoming a hero disappeared into the ether.
Five minutes later, he was back outside Hudson Brown’s house. He knocked on the door politely, thinking it best to reassure his charge that he hadn’t been gone too long.
Hudson Brown opened the door, glared, and snarled, ‘What is it?’
‘Just checking up on you, sir,’ Warwick said through gritted teeth. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ Hudson Brown said tersely. ‘Bit of flu, maybe, but nothing you can do anything about.’
‘Then I will bid you goodnight, sir.’
Half an hour more until the ghost shift would come switch. Warwick made his way back to his car, watched Hudson Brown turn out all the lights, ready for bed, and then kicked back in his seat to wait for the end of his shift. His shoulder hurt, and his ego had been bruised, but at least nobody would ever find out.
Chapter 15: Domestic Bliss
There was one silver lining to being side-lined at work: Morton could now knock off exactly at five o’clock, wave merrily to his many colleagues who would be there for at least an hour or two more, then go paint the town red with his beautiful wife. He had done a half-day Saturday purely out of habit, and tonight was all about Sarah. She deserved more. She always had. Somehow, she’d put up with over thirty years of his workaholic ways, with only the briefest respite for holidays. Tonight, he would make it up to her.
The limousine was borrowed. An old friend of his had retired from the force and gone into providing a high-security car service for visiting dignitaries. It made an impressive sight parked on the road outside his home.
‘You didn’t pay for this, did you?’ Sarah asked as Morton held the door open for her.
‘God, no,’ Morton said. ‘Not with money, anyway.’
‘Good. Because we need that money for Stephen’s wedding.’
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Wasn’t the bride’s father supposed to pick up the tab for the wedding? Morton stepped in behind Sarah and produced a single red rose from behind his back.
‘I did spend three quid on this, though.’
He grinned as she took the rose. That coquettish smile was the same as the day they’d met. It had been like being struck by lightning back then, and he felt the same jolt now. Five minutes after he’d first met Sarah, he had turned to Xander and whispered, ‘This is the one.’ Fast forward three decades, and Morton still couldn’t believe his luck.
‘You’re an old fool, David.’ Sarah sidled up to him, snuggled against his shoulder, and Morton felt all of the anger of the week drain away.
‘Don’t you tell a soul. The boys down at Scotland Yard still thi
nk I’m one of the lads.’
‘If they genuinely think that, they really shouldn’t be detectives.’
Morton laughed. She had a point.
‘So, are you going to tell me where we’re going?’
‘Clos Maggoire,’ Morton said. He knew from her expression that he’d made the right call.
Sarah smiled broadly. ‘And then it struck, a bolt from the blue. One moment alone, one moment there’s you.’
‘Even after all these years?’ Morton said, gobsmacked that she could still recite the poem he’d written for her on their very first date.
‘Always.’
Sometimes, just sometimes, life was grand.
***
The eight o’clock changeover from the ghost shift back to Warwick was when they found the body.
The night shift had watched from the car all night. Nobody had been in or out. The doors were locked from the inside. Somehow, someone had killed a man through two locked doors under the watchful eye of a close protection officer, a dozen CCTV cameras, and some of the best home security money could buy.
And yet, there he was, as dead as a doornail, lying in his bed.
‘And that’s not the weirdest thing,’ Warwick said to the outgoing night-shift guard. ‘Look. He’s not even moved out of bed. There’s not a mark on him’
‘Weird.’
Warwick saw an opportunity to be important. This wasn’t just a crime scene. This was his crime scene. He puffed up his chest. ‘I’m going to call it in. Can you stand guard by the body?’
‘Sure. I could use the overtime.’
The ground floor was small. The bedroom and the only bathroom, which was an en suite, were at the back of the flat. In the middle were a galley kitchen, a small panic room installed just for Hudson Brown, and a sitting room in which it would be impossible to swing a cat. Warwick marched through to the front door, called it in, and sat down on the front step. No doubt a pathologist would be on-scene in no time, and Warwick had until then to work out how he could use Hudson Brown’s death to make his name.
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 56
