***
Rafferty’s Sunday morning started as it always did: with a blistering hangover.
She rolled over in bed, reached for the bottle of water that she had pre-emptively placed on her nightstand, and took a sip. It was still dark out, and she briefly wondered what had awakened her until she saw her phone flashing on the dresser.
A flick of her thumb unlocked the phone, and she blearily read through the page. Another body. Another case. She bolted upright, the sleepiness vanishing from her eyes as the adrenaline kicked in.
The chief had been as good as her word. Despite her lack of progress with Angela King, Rafferty had her second case.
It took twenty minutes to pull together her clothes, make her mussed-up hair look vaguely professional, and jump in the car. She sped towards King’s Cross flat out, pushing her little Alfa Romeo GT up to 85 thanks to the lack of early-morning traffic. No doubt several speed cameras flashed her on the way. Those she’d deal with later.
It was only as she pulled into view of the familiar blue-and-white crime scene tape that she finally clocked the name of the victim. Hudson Brown wasn’t just any victim. He was a Member of Parliament and one of the most outspoken voices of the far right. The man had decried human rights, hated the fact women could vote, and believed that all minorities “ought to be shipped back where they came from”. It didn’t take a genius to realise just how many people might want the man dead. Had Rafferty’s luck already run out? It felt like she was coming up against a second impossible case before she had even started.
The street was already filling with officers by the time Rafferty had parked up. An older-looking officer with a slight paunch was standing by the door of the victim’s home.
‘Detective Inspector Rafferty. What can you tell me?’
The older man nodded. ‘Warwick Kimmel, ma’am. I found him. I found the body.’
There was a hint of pride in Warwick’s voice, as if this were some sort of achievement. Rafferty gave the older man the once-over. ‘How did you find him?’
‘I’m his close protection officer, day shift.’
And yet, Rafferty thought, you’re almost bragging about the fact that your charge is dead. ‘So, what happened?’
‘Don’t know, ma’am. All was quiet on the western front last night. I looked in on him before I went off for the night. He said he was feeling a bit tired – maybe a touch of the flu, he said – but knowing him, it could just have been the booze, and then he went to bed. When I came back on-shift this morning, he was dead as a doornail.’
Rafferty perked up. Could it be this one wasn’t murder after all? ‘So, what’s the cause of death?’
‘No idea, ma’am. The pathologist is in with him now.’
***
Another Sunday morning, another body. By now, Chiswick had seen it all and was fazed by none of it. There had been the dismembered corpses with their fingertips removed to prevent identification, the many bloaters dredged from the Thames, and a handful of bodies charred beyond the worst of Chiswick’s BBQ cooking.
This one sounded routine. An older man in a high-stress position found dead overnight sounded like every other natural death case of Chiswick’s career. As much as he would like to pretend otherwise, the human body was remarkably frail. Even if what’s-his-name outside thought it was murder. Of course he did. The slightest sign of excitement could send a close protection officer rabid. It was a remarkably dull job, babysitting a politician. Chiswick couldn’t have done it, and he literally spent his days talking to stiffs. Somehow, the corpses were still better company.
It was a nice flat, no doubt appointed at the taxpayers’ expense. The living room appeared to have been decked out exclusively in Kesterport furniture. What Chiswick wouldn’t do to have a taxpayer-funded personal shopper at Harrods. His wife might finally be happy with the house if he could wave a magic wand and make designer furniture appear in a matter of hours. Rumour had it, they even offered horse-drawn delivery bedecked in the company livery for the most discerning of shoppers.
He found the bedroom easily enough. The door lock was broken. Allegedly, the close protection officer outside had done that. If anything, it was another sign that this was a natural death. Both the front door and bedroom locks were high quality and had been firmly locked when the body was found.
Chiswick nudged the door gently to avoid it falling off its hinges and set his bag down. The bedroom was small – no more than a box room, really – but there was a large en suite at the end of the room. It appeared to be the only bathroom in the property. Chiswick hoped the late Member of Parliament didn’t host too often, as guests traipsing through the tiny master bedroom to the loo would have been a real inconvenience.
The man of the hour was in bed, his body covered by a large sheet that had been pulled up over his eyes, a mark of respect that Chiswick wouldn’t have afforded the man. The bedding was soft, expensive, and, again, probably taxpayer-funded.
Chiswick pulled the sheet back in one smooth motion and froze on the spot. The body showed all the classic signs of asphyxia, except Chiswick knew that nobody had been in or out of the house, so he couldn’t have been smothered. It was only then that Chiswick noticed how much colder than normal the room was. His own laboured breathing echoed in the darkness.
Carbon dioxide poisoning. ‘Run!’ he yelled.
Leaving his bag on the floor, he sprinted from the crime scene in a gangly fashion. When he reached the hallway, he yelled at the close protection officer again. ‘Out! Now!’
He ran thirty feet beyond the front door, carried by adrenaline. He was oblivious to the reporters gathered around the crime scene who immediately turned their cameras on him.
Rafferty jogged over, startled to see Chiswick so panicked.
‘What’s up?’ she asked.
Chiswick panted, pointed back at the house, and said, ‘Carbon dioxide. Move the perimeter back. Get the neighbours out!’
He fell to his knees, panting for breath. It was not to be such an ordinary case after all.
***
The hour after Chiswick’s dramatic sprint from the building was a flurry of activity. Rafferty felt her pride swell up as she barked orders left and right. The police line was moved well back, the neighbours were evacuated just in case, and the fire brigade was on-scene in minutes.
‘Ma’am, that means you too.’
Rafferty turned in the direction of the voice. A handsome fireman was looking directly at her. She pointed at herself as if to be sure he meant her.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said with the hint of a crooked smile. ‘I have my orders. Everyone gets checked out today.’
It took a moment for Rafferty to realise what he meant. There was an ambulance set up beside the fire truck to check those who’d been on-scene for carbon dioxide poisoning.
‘But I feel fine,’ Rafferty protested. ‘I was barely in there for a minute.’
‘And you look fine too,’ the fireman said. ‘I’m Dermot, by the way. If you wouldn’t mind, it’ll take just a minute. For safety’s sake. I can hold your hand if you like.’
Smooth, Rafferty thought. She subconsciously ran her fingers through her hair, all too aware that she was dressed for work but looked like death warmed up. ‘I think I can manage,’ she said.
‘Oh, okay.’
He looked crestfallen.
She grinned. It was much too easy. ‘But I’ll let you know if I’m feeling faint and need you to catch me.’
With a brisk stride, she left him standing staring at her. He didn’t want to see her go, but damn if he wasn’t enjoying watching her walk away. Still got it, girl, Rafferty thought.
A quick once-over by an emergency medical technician revealed she was just fine, despite her time inside the house. By the time she was given the all-clear, the firemen had finished checking out the home. Rain had begun to fall, and the assembled journalists, now pushed back a hundred feet or so, were huddled under umbrellas, snapping pictures with long-range te
lephoto lenses. There was even a BBC News van filming the scene. There wasn’t much to be seen, but that wasn’t stopping the journalists.
‘It’s all clear,’ Dermot said to her. ‘But stay safe. We don’t know where the gas came from.’
‘I’ll let you know if I’m about to fall over,’ Rafferty said.
He gave a cheesy wink and said, ‘If you’re ready to fall, I’m ready to catch you.’
‘Promises, promises.’
Rafferty left Dermot standing in the rain. She’d have to deal with the press sooner or later, but she needed to check out the crime scene. Someone had killed a man through two locked doors while a close protection officer was standing guard outside.
Just as she was about to head in, a familiar face ducked under the police barrier. Ayala was, as usual, overdressed for the occasion. He was wearing his trademark three-piece suit and an immaculately pressed Brioni tie, and had paired them with a sheepish grin.
‘Sorry,’ he said, as if one word would make up for his betrayal.
‘Noted. Get to work. The vic was gassed with carbon dioxide. Nobody has been in the house. I need to know how the killer got to him.’
‘On it.’
She watched him disappear into the house. If he was dealing with that, she’d better handle the journalists before things got out of hand.
***
Ayala was flummoxed. There was no obvious source of gas anywhere. The flat was nearly empty. Hudson Brown was a minimalist with a place for everything and everything in its place. Even his socks were neatly ironed and folded and then placed in a drawer, grouped by colour and pattern. Ayala had to wonder what kind of mind was so twisted that it had to control circumstances so precisely.
The most obvious source of gas would have been the kitchen but for the fact that there was an electric induction hob. Hudson Brown didn’t have gas central heating, either; the flat was warmed by underfloor electric heating. There were no gas-driven appliances, no power generators, nothing that could explain the carbon dioxide. He had a fire alarm, and a carbon monoxide alarm, but there was scant need to put a carbon dioxide alarm into a domestic property, particularly one which didn’t even have a gas supply.
Apart from the overly neat clothing, the flat was virtually empty. It was laid out – and felt like – a show home for a developer. There were no knick-knacks, no photos, no personal belongings outside the bedroom. Hudson Brown might have resided here, but he didn’t live here.
The sound of footsteps alerted Ayala that he wasn’t alone. He tensed up, not having expected company. ‘Who’s there?’
‘M-m-me,’ a voice stammered back.
‘Mayberry, don’t creep up on me like that,’ Ayala said. ‘A man got murdered in here, not more than a dozen hours ago and through two locked doors. It’s enough to put a man on edge without you looming like a spectre over his shoulder.’
‘S-sorry. Any l-luck?’
Ayala shook his head. ‘None. I’m out of ideas. You?’
‘O-one. H-how old is t-this place?’
‘The building? A couple of hundred years old,’ Ayala said. He had seen a blue tourist plaque on the outside saying that some notable person had lived at the address in the mid-eighteen hundreds.
Mayberry’s eyes lit up. ‘V-Victorian p-p-plumbing?’
‘I guess. Why?’
‘L-look,’ Mayberry said, shoving his phone under Ayala’s nose. The image, which Brodie had managed to scrounge up for Mayberry after a phone call, showed a map of the Victorian drainage system.
Ayala squinted.
‘One of the l-lines runs r-right under the h-house.’
‘You can’t seriously be suggesting...’
‘Y-yes. T-they g-gassed him t-through the sewers.’
***
It fell to Rafferty to interrogate the two close protection officers: Warwick Kimmel, the older day-shift close protection officer, and his night shift equivalent, Michael Ford.
‘Walk me through it again, gentlemen.’
‘I said goodnight to him last night,’ Kimmel said. ‘He was definitely alive then, I watched him turn out the lights. And Michael took over just after.’
‘That’s right,’ Ford said firmly. ‘I came on-shift, and spent the night watching the front door. It’s the only point of entry, and nobody came or went during the night. I’ve got the dash cam footage to prove it.’
Rafferty jabbed an accusatory finger at Warwick Kimmel. ‘And yet this morning you found him murdered. How do you think that happened?’
‘Don’t look at me!’ Kimmel said. ‘I did my job. He was alive when I looked after him. Ask Ford, here. He’s the one who was on-shift when Hudson Brown died.’
Rafferty looked between them. They were both wearing expressions of confusion, as if they were shocked that Rafferty might assign blame for a man under their charge dying on their watch. Could it all be an act? Could one of the men standing before her be the killer? Occam’s Razor said the simplest explanation was usually the right one. The killer couldn’t teleport through two locked doors.
‘Do you have keys to the house?’
‘Well, yeah,’ said Ford. ‘We’ve got a complete set of keys. The bedroom is a simple bolt from the inside, mind you.’
A simple bolt, Rafferty thought, that Kimmel presented himself as having broken in order to get in to find the body. She only had his word that it been broken then, and not earlier, when Hudson Brown was murdered.
‘Does anyone else have a set?’
Ford shook his head. ‘We hand ‘em over if we’re rotated out. We do four on, three off, so the B shift takes over for half of the week.’
‘And you’re always in the same pairs? You two working one complete day?’
‘Usually,’ Kimmel said.
‘Did you like Hudson Brown?’ Rafferty asked. ‘How was he to work for?’
Ford pouted. ‘We don’t – didn’t – work for him. We’re assigned to protect him. What we think of him is immaterial.’
‘But you didn’t like him, did you?’ Rafferty needled again. She knew she was on to something when the pair exchanged a grim glance.
‘Nobody liked him,’ Kimmel replied. ‘He was a despicable human being. I still don’t wish him dead, not least because if he died on my shift, that’s it for my career. You can’t let a Member of Parliament die and expect to remain with the Close Protection Unit.’
***
‘We always get the shit jobs,’ Ayala moaned as they climbed down into the sewers. The entrance was a subtle metal doorway just south of King’s Cross station. The system was a series of overflow chambers running down into the River Fleet deep beneath the surface of London.
The entrance had been unlocked. A broken padlock lay on the floor nearby, which Mayberry had bagged for evidence. It was possible the killer had followed the very route they were on.
They tied a rope off at the entrance and tied the other end to Mayberry’s waist. The system ran for hundreds of miles, and they didn’t want to risk getting lost without a guide to get them home. Mayberry slowly unspooled the rope as they walked, trying to keep it taut so it didn’t dip into the water.
There was a small current underfoot. Few homes were still attached to the old system, but there were still a number of storm drains that flowed into the old drainage tunnels. Ayala tried not to pay attention to what he was walking in. He had covered his loafers with evidence booties, but the water squelched up and over his ankles, and no doubt his custom Goodyear-welt leather shoes would be fit for the bin before the day was out.
‘How did you learn about this place?’ Ayala asked.
‘G-g-geocaching.’
It was the latest craze: hide something where nobody in their right mind should be going, and invite other geocachers to try to find it, like hide and seek for adults.
‘I had no idea you were a fan.’
‘My w-wife is.’
That explained it. Mayberry’s missus was related to the recently retired chief. She had always st
ruck Ayala as Mayberry’s polar opposite: sporty, outgoing, and silver-tongued, yet she had stayed loyal through his disability. Ayala had to respect that.
They came upon a fork in the tunnel. ‘Which way?’
‘L-left,’ Mayberry said as firmly as he could. ‘I t-think.’
They came upon a dead end and were forced to double back. The rope was no longer taut and was quickly coated in a layer of greasy sewer water. Mayberry grimaced as he ran the excess back into a spool.
As they made their way down the other path, they heard the sound of the River Fleet in the distance.
‘Is this tidal?’ Ayala wondered aloud. When Mayberry shrugged, it was Ayala’s turn to grimace. Drowning in an old sewer drain was not how he wanted to die.
Farther along, they saw something looming in the darkness. Ayala pushed forward, keeping Mayberry behind him, and held a torch aloft.
‘W-what is that?’
It was a good question. It looked like a tube, a giant, plastic tube hanging from the ceiling, where it appeared to have been drilled into place.
‘It’s a kid’s play tunnel!’ Ayala cried. ‘I had one just like it as a kid. Didn’t you? They’re for crawling through or hiding in. What on earth is it doing here?’
Mayberry stared at him and pointed to his GPS receiver. They were directly under Hudson Brown’s house.
Ayala lifted the tube and looked up inside it with the torch. Sewage water dripped all down his trousers as he did so. There, up above, was a pipe. ‘Do you think that’s the exit pipe from Hudson Brown’s house?’
‘Y-yep.’
‘Let’s test it. You got the kit?’
Mayberry took the bag from around his neck and fished inside. He was looking for long pipe cleaners. They were stiff enough to push up the pipe and long enough to be seen at the other end.
Ayala checked his phone. One bar of signal. He texted up to Rafferty: Can you see a pipe cleaner?
The reply came back quickly: Yes, sticking out of the toilet.
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 57
