She was smart enough to live within walking distance of her office in Canary Wharf. In her opinion, it was the best commute in the world: across the footbridge on the North Dock, down the road to the Millwall Inner Dock, and then cut past the Pepper St Ontiod to get home to Spindrift Avenue.
The weather had turned nasty during the afternoon, and great rolls of thunder bellowed across the sky. It was during one of the lightning flashes that she saw him illuminated against the skyline. He was standing atop a building on the other side of the dock, teetering on the edge.
Lauren squinted up. It was impossible to see much at this distance. She broke out into a jog, crossing over the Glengall Bridge towards the eastern side of Pepper Street. As usual, the Dutch-style Bascule bridge was closed. Come to think of it, Lauren had never actually seen it open.
Another lightning flash. For a moment, she thought she saw two men on the roof.
It happened in slow motion. One moment, the man was silhouetted against the skyline, and then he began to fall. Five storeys later, she heard rather than saw the man hit the ground with a sickening crunch that she knew she’d never be able to forget.
She screamed. The mangled body of a man was visible under the dock lights not more than fifty feet away. His limbs stuck up at jaunty angles as if mocking his final act. Blood had begun to pool underneath him and was now making a beeline for the water.
She retched, tore her gaze away, and promptly threw up on the footpath.
***
The police presence was minimal. The death of Ed Teigan was a non-event, a suicide. One police officer had arrived to guard the scene and keep the body away from prying eyes, and then the scene of crime boys had been summoned to sweep up the body, clean off the blood, and get one of East London’s busiest footpaths back in operation.
The death file included only the basics: the position of the body, the time of death, various photographs, and Ed’s name. Identification had been easy: he’d been carrying his wallet when he jumped.
His personal effects were bagged for the next of kin, not that Stuart Purcell thought anyone would want them. A bloodied mobile phone, a nearly empty wallet, and a set of smashed-up keys were of little use to man or beast. The body was quickly wrapped and taken away, and Purcell was left with the grim task of power-washing the blood off the pavement. He couldn’t do much about the blood leaking into the Millwall Outer Dock.
He looked around the dock. There were dozens of people on the water on kayaks and windboards. The local sailing club was one of the best in London, and a charity to boot. Purcell had no desire to let them know what had gone down. No doubt news would filter through in time; the Isle of Dogs was still very much a community, which was odd for London. Purcell supposed it was because nobody travelled through the Isle of Dogs. It wasn’t the way from anywhere to anywhere. The only reason to come here was for work or play. It was a shame that Purcell’s first visit was tarnished by a bloody corpse. As the sun began to set, Purcell had to admit it really was quite a pretty part of the world.
***
Ed landed on the autopsy table the next day when pathologist Dr Larry Chiswick made it in to the office that Sunday morning to catch up on some paperwork.
He barely stifled a yawn as he confirmed it was a suicide. They were ten a penny these days. Every recession, every financial crash, and a dozen such schmucks landed in the morgue. It was sad, really, but Larry had no time to be sympathetic to every cadaver that passed under his nose. There’d be an inquest. There had to be.
Chiswick hit his voice recorder. ‘The deceased suffered injuries consistent with a fall from considerable height. There do not appear to be any other injuries. The victim’s blood has been sent for a full battery of toxicological tests; it has been confirmed not to contain any common narcotics, and the deceased’s blood alcohol level was near zero at the time of his death. Witnesses report seeing him jump from a height of approximately five storeys, which is consistent with the state of the cadaver. I am minded to consider this to be suicide.’
The next of kin would be informed of his verdict, and they’d have the opportunity to ask questions in the coroner’s court. Few ever did. The perceived shame of suicide was still a barrier to any honest discussion of mental health problems. In the City, you were either a winner or a loser. It was a wholly binary division with no space for those just getting along okay, and it drove men to make irrational decisions.
Chiswick had once briefly considered a career as a trader. The allure of the bright lights, the big money, the women, and the whole lifestyle seemed fantastic, until he met a few traders who were completely out of touch. Selling his soul for the almighty dollar had never appealed after that.
Chiswick set down his voice recorder. No, for him it would always be a life of public service... and a gold-plated final salary pension. Just a few more years to go.
Chapter 20: The Mother
Morton arrived early on Monday. He had been given the USB stick by Sarah, and he’d read the files. Like Rafferty, he felt there wasn’t really enough to go on. The deaths of Angela King and Hudson Brown were both clean. Too clean.
The timing couldn’t be a coincidence, either. Ten o’clock on Saturday was, Morton had to admit, pretty close to murder central, but those common late-night deaths were stabbings, drunken fights, and the many domestic incidents that befell the capital.
These deaths weren’t like that. Angela King had plainly been killed by someone with significant experience. It was, Morton thought, possibly a fatal flaw that the bullet had gone missing. With it, Rafferty would have been able to determine the calibre of the weapon and pursue that angle. Without it, all she had was someone killed where nobody could see.
Hudson Brown’s murder was the more promising investigation. There was no lack of suspects. Even Morton had to admit the world was better off without the man. He hadn’t deserved to be murdered, but he hadn’t deserved to live, either. It felt like a vigilante murder.
But if the timing wasn’t a coincidence and the deaths were linked, then Morton was at a loss to see what connected a firebrand alt-right Member of Parliament and the wife of a policeman. There was no clue they had ever met. She was a registered member of the Liberal Democrats, an active member of the local Women’s Institute, and had given off the vibe of being a content 1950s-style housewife. It wasn’t an existence that Sarah would ever have tolerated. Morton had once bought her a tea towel while travelling, and he hadn’t lived it down for a month. He hadn’t been trying to suggest a woman’s place was in the kitchen; he’d just liked the design. Convincing Sarah of that had been another matter entirely.
It was no use. He had only a few more minutes until he had to teach, and he had little planned for the lesson. With a yawn, he stretched and forced himself to his feet.
He needed a breath of fresh air before nine o’clock. He headed down the stairs, forgoing the lift for a modicum of exercise, and found himself in the lobby. He was about to head outside when he heard a woman screaming. He spun around, muscles tensed.
The scream was emanating from an older woman, and it was a scream of anguish, not pain.
The temptation was to ignore it. It would have been so easy to just keep on walking and leave someone else to deal with the distraught woman. Instead, he turned, cast the thought of teaching from his mind, and headed over.
‘Excuse me? Detective Chief Inspector Morton. Can I be of any help here?’
The woman stammered her name between sobs. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying and bogged down by dark bags. ‘Teigan. Amanda Teigan.’
‘Okay, Mrs Teigan. What can we do for you today?’
She looked around the lobby. Those who were staring quickly averted their gaze, but the damage had been done. Amanda Teigan quickly realised she had made herself a spectacle.
Morton gently took her by the arm and said kindly, ‘Why don’t we go on through to the back, and we can talk there.’
He steered her by the arm, waved off security, and made a beeline for one of t
he ground floor interview suites. He found one empty and motioned for the distraught woman to join him.
‘In here, Mrs Teigan. Can I get you a cup of sweet tea?’
‘No, thank you.’
They sat in awkward silence for a moment. Mrs Teigan had begun to cry once more. This time there was no stopping her. For once, Morton was thankful his mother had always insisted he carry a handkerchief in his breast pocket, and doubly thankful that it was clean. He handed it over to Mrs Teigan and waited as she let herself cry.
‘Thank you,’ she said eventually. ‘You must think I’m pathetic.’
‘Not at all, Mrs Teigan,’ Morton said. ‘When you’re ready, no rush, I’d appreciate if you could tell me what brought you here this morning.’
‘It’s my son, Ed. They found his... body...’ Mrs Teigan began to sob once more. ‘On Saturday. Your officers say he killed himself.’
Morton had suspected a bereavement. Few things left a parent so broken as seeing a child, be they adult or not, die. It was a cruelty Morton would not inflict on his worst enemy.
‘You don’t think he committed suicide,’ Morton said.
Amanda Teigan looked him dead in the eye. ‘No. I know he didn’t. And you lot don’t believe me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he was happy. He had a good job, a beautiful girlfriend, and he was excited about the future. He’s never had depression. He wasn’t in financial difficulty. Don’t people commit suicide for a reason?’
Morton pondered his response. It was possible that Ed Teigan had simply been an expert at hiding his problems. Maybe he had suffered from depression, but his mother was in the dark. To say so would seem cruel, callous, and unfair. The least he could do was extend the poor woman some sympathy.
‘Okay. This might sound... difficult, but is it possible he had a problem of some kind, but was keeping it to himself?’
‘Absolutely not. He was making plans for the future. I spoke to him on Saturday afternoon. He was planning to propose to his girlfriend, Aline. He had a reservation at Peninsula for last night that I know for a fact he confirmed on Saturday evening. See!’ She pushed her mobile phone across the table to him.
There it was. A text from Ed dated 21:09: Hi Mum, all set for tomorrow. I’ve called the restaurant, got the flowers, and I’ve got my suit. Gran’s ring looks beautiful. She’ll love it. Wish me luck tomorrow night!
Morton reread it again. Amanda Teigan had a point. It didn’t read like a man about to end his life.
‘How long before he... you know, was this?’
‘Less than an hour. They tell me he jumped at ten o’clock.’
Morton’s eyebrows leaped. Three deaths, three Saturdays, each at around ten o’clock? He tried to shake off the feeling that it was mere coincidence, but the acid churning in the pit of his stomach was having none of it.
‘Why else would he be on the roof?’
‘He smoked. His office was on the top floor, and he often worked late. I kept trying to get him to quit smoking, but Ed always said his roof time was one of his favourite parts of the day. Could it have been an accident?’
Morton didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t familiar with the building that Ed had worked in, but virtually all high-rises with roof access had extensive fencing to prevent such an accident. It seemed unlikely.
‘Mrs Teigan, I’ll look into this for you. I can’t promise anything, but I’d like to make a few enquiries, talk to the coroner, and, if I may, speak to Aline. Would you be able to write down her contact details for me?’
Amanda Teigan began to tear up once more. ‘Thank you, Mr Morton. Thank you.’
Chapter 21: Fall, Jump, Push
It was much the same as Ayala had told his students. When jumpers committed suicide, they tended to fall not far from the building. As Ayala had less than tactfully put it, the greatest act of cowardice took ten seconds of immense courage. Overriding the human survival instinct took immense effort.
Few suicidal men had the determination to take a running jump to their death.
Morton wondered what they thought on the way down. Did they regret their choice in the few seconds they were falling? What went through a man’s head right before he met destiny in the form of a solid concrete pavement?
Ayala had not answered Morton’s summons, so he relied on the forensics department to run him through the calculations.
There was a margin of error. With a relatively low building, the overlap between stepping off and being pushed off was large. According to the scene of crime officer in attendance, Stuart Purcell, Ed Teigan’s body was right in this overlap zone.
Morton headed out to the office building where Ed Teigan had worked as an advertising executive so he could look himself. He was not a fan of the Isle of Dogs. When he’d been an undercover officer, many moons ago, he had spent a great deal of time investigating drug running in the East End, and he had no fond memories of anywhere beyond Limehouse.
As he drove over, Morton was struck by how much had changed. Gone were the slums, the cheap cafes, and the industrial sites. Everything seemed so shiny and new. There was little parking to be had, so Morton left the car in the local Asda’s car park. He was careful to park directly in front of a CCTV camera, just in case.
The dock was a five-minute walk underneath Crossharbour Docklands Light Railway Station. The DLR was the spine of East London, running right up to Bank, where commuters could switch over to London Underground. While not as convenient as a true tube line, it ran above ground, which gave commuters the chance to see the bright lights of Canary Wharf from another angle.
He found the spot where Ed Teigan had bled out in no time. There were no indications that a man had died there less than forty-eight hours earlier, except for a sole bunch of flowers tied to the railing around the Millwall Outer Dock.
It was a pretty spot, and Morton could well imagine the view from the top of the buildings would be exceptional. From where he was standing, Morton looked west across the Millwall Outer Dock towards the Isle of Dogs Sailing Club. When he turned to his right, he could see Canary Wharf to the north of the island. At night, the lights would be impressive.
As Morton admired the view, he saw someone swipe a card to gain access to Ed Teigan’s building. As he was not officially assigned to the case, Morton had to tailgate his way into the building like a common thief. He strode briskly for the stairs in front of him as if he belonged and slowly climbed towards the roof.
There was a fire exit at the very top of the stairs. It was the kind of the door that would automatically lock shut behind him. When he swung it open, he spotted a couple of cinder blocks that had been left just outside. He propped the door open and proceeded up onto the roof.
The view was as breath-taking as Morton had imagined it would be. This high up, the noises of the dock below faded, and the whole of London seemed to be at his fingertips. He walked to the edge of the roof that ran alongside the dock. The building was old, and it appeared to be mostly concrete construction. A ledge approximately four feet high ran around the perimeter.
There was no way Teigan’s fall had been an accident. Getting up onto the ledge would require a determined effort.
Morton looked around the roof. There was nothing that could be used as a step. Then he swung a leg up onto the ledge. It would be possible to pull himself up onto the ledge as long as it was dry enough to get a grip on the wall. His quick scan of the roof revealed a number of cigarette butts littering the rooftop. Amanda Teigan had mentioned her son had smoked.
As Morton prowled the roof, a woman emerged from the fire exit.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said, obviously surprised to see someone in her spot. ‘New hire out for a ciggie, are you? I’m Dolly.’
Morton regarded her as she pulled out a cigarette, deftly held it between delicate fingers, and lit up.
‘Hi, Dolly. Detective Chief Inspector Morton. I’m investigating the death of Edward Teigan. Did you know him?’
‘Know h
im? I’ve known him since preschool. He was the year above me, same as my brother. It was so sad what happened to him.’
‘How did he strike you last time you saw him?’ Morton asked. ‘Was there anything to suggest he was suicidal?’
‘No way!’ Dolly said. ‘Poor lamb must have been overcompensating or something. He seemed ever so cheerful, cracking jokes and talking about his plans to propose. He seemed a bit nervous about that, mind, but nothing to suggest he was hurting inside.’
‘When was this?’
‘Saturday evening. I saw him go up for his cigarette late Saturday night. It must have been right before he jumped. I assumed I hadn’t noticed when he came back down. It’s a big office, and I was working late on a project – the same one as Ed, actually – so I wasn’t exactly concentrating on who was where.’
‘Was the project causing Ed stress?’
‘Nah,’ Dolly said. ‘This one was almost in the bag. He was in line for a big bonus for completing it, too.’
Morton made a mental note: could someone else have wanted to stop him getting the bonus? ‘When did you realise that he was dead?’
‘When I saw the commotion outside. I headed out for the last DLR from Crossharbour at a bit gone eleven o’clock, and there was blue police tape up just outside. One of your officers was escorting our staff out one at a time past the cordon.’
‘Did you notice anything when he went up for his cigarette?’ Morton asked.
‘No. Nothing. Should I have?’ Dolly looked suddenly worried.
‘Not at all. It’s not your fault. Thank you for your time.’
***
Aline was at Ed’s mother’s when Morton called. It sounded from the stress in her voice that the whole family was holding vigil. Morton swapped his tie for a sombre black affair that had seen far too much use before he headed over.
It was a large family home on the outskirts of Greenwich. Once upon a time, it would have been a cheap property, relative to the rest of London, but up-and-coming Greenwich had long since gentrified beyond the means of most Londoners. Morton was pleased to see an old Victorian terrace that had remained a family home rather than having been carved up into shoebox-sized flats for rent.
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 60
