‘Three thousand, laddie,’ Brodie said, pointing at the search through the digital copies for the words “hope” and “die”. ‘That’s just so far. He wasn’t a popular man.’
‘H-how c-can we n-narrow it down?’
‘Let’s start with the obvious. He spent all day insulting people, right? Who has Hudson Brown insulted the most? Think now, laddie.’
Mayberry strained his mind to think back to the YouTube videos he had spent hours watching while trying not to become inured to the offensiveness. There was one man, a far-left MP, who was a running joke of sorts.
‘D-Douglas Shapiro?’
‘Bingo, laddie. Who’d want the man dead more? If Rafferty wants somewhere to start, show her the videos where Hudson Brown digs into Shapiro over and over, and then show her Shapiro’s reply videos.’
Mayberry did exactly that. He found Rafferty in the Incident Room, looking more haggard than he had ever seen her.
‘Y-you okay?’ he asked as he sat opposite her at the conference table.
‘Not really. I don’t know where to start with this. Nobody liked him. Nobody. He’s so thoroughly dislikeable that I’d have happily killed him myself. Please don’t repeat that!’
Mayberry smiled. ‘I w-won’t. W-what a-about t-this guy?’ He turned his phone towards her, maxed out the volume, and hit play on the most popular YouTube video of Douglas Shapiro, MP.
‘Hudson Brown is a cretin. He’s so thoroughly wrong that his “followers” assume the truth must be somewhere in the middle. That’s the power of the alt-right, ladies and gents. It isn’t in stirring up hatred. Those who hate have always hated; all Hudson Brown does is give them licence to proclaim their hatred and ignorance from the rooftops. Giving Hudson Brown a platform legitimises the illegitimate. Every click, every like, every view on his social media feed is one more pair of eyeballs being exposed to the worst of humanity, and you can’t unsee it. It’s like when one man says white and another says black: it’s much too easy to assume that the answer is some shade of grey. Extremism begets hate and violence. It’s time to end it.’
‘End it?’ Rafferty echoed. ‘When was this video posted?’
‘Y-yesterday. S-six hours before h-his m-murder.’
Chapter 17: Left Meets Right
Rafferty found Douglas Shapiro, MP in his office at the House of Commons. She didn’t expect trouble, but she had the security staff wait in the hallway outside just in case. She rapped smartly on the door to his office and opened it without waiting.
‘Douglas Shapiro?’
‘You’ve found him,’ Shapiro said. ‘What can I do for the Met’s finest?’
Rafferty stopped in her tracks. How did he know who she was?
‘Sorry, Detective. I spotted you on BBC News. Please, take a seat. I assume this is about Hudson Brown’s murder.’
‘It is.’
Shapiro smiled. ‘And you’re wondering if I killed him. Sadly, no. I’m not sad to see him gone, but he’ll be replaced in no time. There’s always someone willing to take on the mantle of vile hatred to make a few pounds.’
‘Then, explain the video.’
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Saturday’s video? It was exactly what it looked like. I disagreed with his views, and I said so.’
‘You said you were going to “end it”. What did you mean by that?’
This time, Shapiro burst out laughing. ‘I was being hyperbolic. That’s how these videos work. Nobody wants to hear me spout on about the studies, the numbers, the real nitty-gritty of an argument. Nobody has time for that. They want the broad brushstrokes. We have to end this vitriolic hatred. I’d have supported arresting him for public indecency if it were possible, but kill him? Never.’
Rafferty leant back in her chair. ‘And you think I’m going to believe that? Just on your say-so? Where were you Saturday?’
He spun his laptop around so Rafferty could see it. ‘Look at this. Here’s my YouTube channel. See those view counts on the right? Millions. Look at where I was at a year ago: barely a dozen views a day. Hudson Brown was the best thing to have ever happened to the Marxist cause. He united my grassroots power base in a way that simple argument never could have. He provided a common enemy, and, dare I say it, he probably used me in the same way. Vitriol only works if there is somebody to be outraged. It’s a dance we both played voluntarily. He for fame, and I for the cause.’
It made sense, but it didn’t answer the question. ‘Where were you Saturday?’
‘My home, three hundred miles away. My wife, kids, and I had a lovely dinner. Do you want her number so you can confirm my alibi?’
‘Yes, please.’
***
Kallum Fielder was out of his depth. Recently promoted from hosting morning talk show Wake Up Britain!, he was now moderating the talking heads responsible for speculating just what had happened to Hudson Brown.
Ratings were naturally through the roof. The murder was fast becoming a national scandal in reverse: who killed the villainous MP?
Newspaper headlines from the week flashed on the big screen behind Kal. The Impartial had run with the scientifically inaccurate headline ‘Tickled Pink: Racist Found Dead’, clearly having confused carbon monoxide poisoning and asphyxiation by carbon dioxide, while the more sombre broadsheets had run with some variant of ‘Locked Room Murder Mystery’.
‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ one of the talking heads said. ‘The government did him in. They didn’t like his message, and the neoliberal elites couldn’t let him convince the masses to follow his ideas.’
Kal almost snorted. If the government offed every racist in politics, there’d be scant few politicians left standing. He strained to remember the name of the woman talking. He glanced surreptitiously at his notes: Doctor Jessie Weir. Blimey. They gave doctorates to conspiracy theorists these days?
‘Dr Weir,’ he said. ‘Why him? He’s not the only alt-right commentator on the web.’
‘No, but he’s the biggest, the loudest, and the most accessible. He’s been one of the most viewed political commentators in the UK since long before the Brexit vote.’
The other commentator, Douglas Shapiro, MP, leant forward. ‘Then, why now? If it’s political, he could have been dealt with long ago. Your theory is preposterous. It’s akin to shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted.’
‘Then, who do you think did it?’
‘I think we need to look at his personal life. If he was as ugly a person as his public persona suggested, there’s bound to be someone in his past who hated him.’
***
‘David, you got a minute?’ Rafferty came to Morton’s office bearing a peace offering of his favourite coffee.
Morton smirked. ‘No. Haven’t you heard? I’m exceptionally busy these days.’
‘Sorry, boss,’ Rafferty said. ‘I didn’t ask for this.’
‘I know. Sit.’
She did. ‘I need help.’
‘Really? I thought you were bribing me with coffee just for fun. Thanks for this, by the way.’
Rafferty placed her notes down on the table and punted the whole bundle across to Morton. ‘Hudson Brown. Where the hell do I start?’
Morton turned through the documents, slowly reading the coroner’s report. By the time he was done, the coffee Rafferty had brought was beginning to cool.
‘So?’ she asked.
‘It’s not an easy case. You’ve got an intelligent killer who managed to get in and out without anyone seeing them. The time of death appears to be the previous night, when Warwick Kimmel was on duty. Is that right? Why didn’t anyone find him ‘til the morning?’
‘His close protection detail said goodnight. He was alive then.’
‘What time was that?’ Morton asked.
‘About ten o’clock.’
Morton frowned. ‘You’ve had two cases, and both of them were committed around the same time on a Saturday night? That’s some co-incidence.’
Rafferty looked quiz
zical. ‘You think they’re related?’
‘Nothing suggests they ought to be. It just seems weird. Okay, so this Kimmel was on duty at the time of death. Have you looked at him?’
‘He seems... inept. I don’t think he liked his charge, but killing him would be – is – career suicide.’
‘OK. Let’s look up his record. If he’s inept, there will be flags somewhere in a career that long.’ Morton opened up his laptop, accessed the personnel database, and typed in the name Warwick Kimmel.
Rafferty tapped her foot impatiently. ‘Anything?’
‘Hmm. You said he said he checked on Hudson Brown at ten, right? At quarter to, he responded to a 999 emergency dispatch around the corner in Polygon Street.’
‘Let me see that.’ Rafferty edged around the desk and peered at Morton’s laptop.
‘It looks like a false alarm, according to the report.’
‘Could be kids?’ Rafferty volunteered.
‘Or it could have been a lure.’
‘What do you mean?’
Morton looked up at her. ‘How better to get rid of the close protection officer than to lure him to a crime in progress right around the corner? If–’
He was interrupted as his office door swung open. Silverman stormed in.
‘Morton, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Silverman demanded. ‘I’ve just been told you’re accessing confidential files.’
Rafferty raised a hand. ‘I asked him–’
‘I don’t care if you asked him to or not. He is not assigned to this case. Get out. Now.’
She stared across the room until Rafferty swept up her notes and left. Rafferty glanced back at Morton as if to apologise.
‘David, you are forbidden from helping in cases to which you are not assigned. She needs to learn to handle an investigation on her own.’
Morton’s skin burned with fury. ‘She needs help. Nobody takes on the murder of a Member of Parliament for one of their first cases. She’s not ready to fly solo.’
‘She’s ready when I say she is. Stay out of it or face the consequences.’ Silverman swept from the room like a tornado, leaving an outraged Morton staring at the closing door.
Stay out of it? Over his dead body.
Chapter 18: The Call
The pit was quiet when Rafferty arrived. It was a windowless room that housed the emergency dispatchers responsible for taking 999 calls. The staff were in matching uniforms with headsets that made them look more like call centre staff for a bank than the heroes they were.
It was a difficult job. Every call could be life or death.
‘This way please, Ms Rafferty,’ said her guide. She was an older lady by the name of Anna Glen.
She led Rafferty through to a small private booth in the back which belonged to a manager.
‘What does it take to become a dispatcher?’ Rafferty asked.
‘The ability to stomach the twelve-hour shifts,’ Ms Glen said with a wan smile. ‘We’re four on, three off, four on, seven off. It’s a weird work schedule to get used to.’
‘How do you do it?’ Rafferty asked as she watched Ms Glen boot up a computer terminal.
‘You get used to it,’ Ms Glen said. ‘The money’s not great, but going home knowing you’ve made a difference to hundreds of people, if not thousands, every single week... where else do you get that sort of job satisfaction?’
‘I suppose so. Is that thing ready? I need the call that triggered sending Warwick Kimmel to Polygon Street on Saturday night around ten o’clock. And can you get me his acknowledgment, too?’
‘I can give you the call. Any radio contact from the officer in question would have been on your own radio system, though.’
She did as she promised, and soon Rafferty was sitting in the manager’s chair listening to the 999 call over and over.
It was short. There was screaming, as if someone were being beaten.
‘Nobody said a location,’ Rafferty said. ‘How did you get Polygon Street from this call?’
‘GPS. The call came in from a mobile – the details are on the bottom of your screen – and the system determined the location of the call.’
‘Is it accurate?’
‘To within a few feet.’
‘But there was nobody there,’ Rafferty said.
‘No. We get a lot of prank calls. Kids, usually.’
‘Is that what you think this is?’
‘You tell me,’ Ms Glen said. ‘There’s something off about the audio. Listen again.’
Ms Glen was right. The screams were ever so slightly muffled.
‘I recognise that voice!’ Rafferty cried. ‘Has that thing got internet access?’
When Ms Glen nodded, Rafferty pulled up YouTube and typed in the name of her favourite TV crime drama. ‘I knew it. Listen to this.’
Rafferty played the video to Ms Glen, and then the YouTube clip of the crime show.
‘Identical!’ Ms Glen cried.
Rafferty’s jaw slackened. Holy shit. Someone had used a television crime scene to lure a police close protection officer out of the way and then murdered the MP he was supposed to be protecting.
***
The task of identifying the source of the dry ice fell to Mayberry. Forensics had confirmed that there was nothing unusual about the trace residue in the boxes. In fact, there was no trace evidence left; all of the dry ice had evaporated, leaving nothing behind, which was simple CO2 pressurized and cooled to form a solid.
The containers themselves were more revealing. The insulated foam was much thicker than required and would likely have given the killer a longer window to get the boxes in place before it sublimated. The boys in forensics said 10% per day was a reasonable figure to work off, but the addition of heat would speed it up considerably.
It wasn’t – as Mayberry had first thought – carbon dioxide poisoning. It wasn’t truly poisoning at all in the chemical sense, but asphyxia brought about by oxygen deprivation. The CO2 displaced oxygen, and that had caused Hudson Brown to suffocate much in the same way he would have if he’d been smothered or strangled. The autopsy report, which Mayberry had on the desk beside him in the incident room, confirmed as much.
What was troubling Mayberry was that Hudson Brown hadn’t woken up before he died. Dry ice wasn’t named that because it contained ice, but because it was cold, and the quantities he and Ayala had found in the sewage tunnel would have reduced the temperature in Hudson Brown’s flat by several degrees.
The autopsy report suggested an answer to that problem. Hudson Brown was an alcoholic. His liver showed clear signs of cirrhosis, and the scene of crime officers had found a number of empty whisky bottles in his recycling. That surprised Mayberry. Someone so vitriolic, so evil, still took the time to recycle. It was an odd contradiction that jarred him.
The use of dry ice implied the killer had worn gloves. If he had not done so, a simple burn would mark out their killer. Mayberry hoped that would be the case, but life was rarely so easy.
More importantly, carbon dioxide was dense. It was heavier than air. To introduce it from below meant the killer had to change the air pressure to force the sublimated gas up the tube. They had yet to find any device – like a fan – that would perform that function. It was possible the killer had taken it with him, and if so, would he have been smart enough to dispose of it afterwards? It wasn’t the most incriminating evidence to keep hold of, and dumping it would look weird.
The dry ice itself could be a dead end. Over a hundred stores within fifty miles of London sold the stuff, and the quantity required for the murder, while large, would not seem out of place among sellers who were supplying dry ice for parties.
Despite that, Mayberry had been given his orders, and he’d call every single one of the hundred and twenty-two stores on his list. Three down, one hundred and nineteen to go.
***
The chief had been explicit. Rafferty was not, under any circumstances, to ask for or accept Morton’s assistance.
They met at the Bow Wine Vaults on Bow Lane, a lovely watering hole that felt a million miles away from the politics of the Met.
‘Ashley, this isn’t a bad thing,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s nice having him home at a reasonable time every night. I’ve spent decades wondering if I’d be one of those police wives who got the call.’
She was referring to the call spouses got when there had been a line-of-duty incident. Each year, dozens of men and women were hurt while performing their duty. Most of the time, it was minor. Sometimes, it wasn’t. Just last year, one of Morton’s team had ended up hospitalised in the middle of a murder investigation.
‘He’s miserable, Sarah,’ Rafferty said. ‘He puts a brave face on it, but you and I know he was born to solve crimes. He’s the best. My cases – both of them – are the sort of no-evidence, who-the-hell-killed-them murders that David is renowned for solving. I don’t have a damned clue where to go. I feel like I’ve been thrown in the deep end, and I’m chasing down every tiny lead. I need his help. Please. He wants to help. It’s just... Silverman.’
Sarah’s eyes narrowed, her smile vanishing. She knew of Anna Silverman. ‘That old witch? Alright. What do you need?’
‘Give him this,’ Rafferty said as she slid a USB stick across the table. ‘It’s got everything we know so far. If he any ideas – any at all – give me a call, and we’ll meet back here for another glass of wine.’
‘Okay. Speaking of wine, I think it’s your round. I’ll have the 2014 Pauillac.’
Chapter 19: The Leap
It had been Super Saturday at the estate agents where Lauren Shrewsberry worked, with flats going on sale off-plan around the world all at the same time. Over four hundred new homes had sold within hours, and Lauren was looking forward to an early night after such a long day.
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 59
