Ed had still lived with his mother. While he waited for Aline to finish a phone call with the funeral directors, Morton was permitted to visit Ed’s bedroom in the converted attic. It was a handsome space filled with handmade furniture, a neatly concealed television, and an en suite complete with stand-alone bath. Ed Teigan had had a high standard of living paired with minimal costs. It was the sort of low-stress environment that seemed at odds with suicide.
His PC was unlocked. Morton scrolled through his social media pages, combing for any hint at dissatisfaction. He found none. There were dozens of photos of Ed smiling, laughing, and posing. His emails were full of upbeat messages, and he had social plans for many months ahead. His to-do list, which was in a special app on his desktop, included plans for upcoming birthday and Christmas presents. Beyond a handful of ‘bored at work’ statuses, Ed seemed to have had a remarkable joie de vivre.
Everything Morton saw suggested that Ed had been a happy, well-adjusted Londoner who had it all: the big house, the loving family, the well-paying job, and the beautiful girlfriend. Why would such a man kill himself?
The ring was there too, sitting on the desk. Morton was no expert, but he’d been around Sarah long enough to know an expensive ring when he saw one. There was a diamond report sitting next to it marked Gemmological Institute of America. Morton Googled for a diamond value calculator and typed in the details so he could estimate its value. He gave a whistle: the diamond alone was worth twelve grand. That ruled out financial problems.
Aline found him while he was inspecting a number of personal photos hanging on the wall.
‘Mr Morton?’ she said. She was a very pretty girl, much like in the photos. She was wearing black, had minimal make-up on, and appeared not to have slept since Ed’s death.
‘Chief Inspector, actually. Aline, I presume.’
‘Yes,’ Aline said. ‘Do you believe us?’
She looked at him in earnest, hanging on for a response. There was fury mixed with grief twined with the faintest look of hope in her expression.
‘Yes,’ Morton said firmly. ‘I don’t believe Ed killed himself, but I need to find something that proves it.’
‘What do you need?’
‘I need to know if anyone wanted him dead.’
‘Ed?’ Aline said. ‘Gracious, no. Everyone loved him.’
‘Nobody disliked him at all?’
‘His co-workers loved him. His family loves him. He’s never hurt anybody.’
‘So, do you think his death was random?’ Morton asked. It seemed incredible that a man could be pushed off a roof for absolutely no reason.
She shrugged. ‘All I know is that the man I loved was a good, honest, hardworking man. He never set out to hurt anyone. I can’t believe someone would be angry enough to throw him from a roof, and I can’t believe he jumped. I don’t know what happened.’
Morton found himself at a loss for words. She seemed totally earnest in her defence of her would-be fiancé’s character, and all the evidence backed her up. Ed Teigan had never been arrested, sued, or fired. He’d never had so much as a parking ticket, although that was probably because he didn’t drive.
‘Did you know he was going to propose tomorrow?’
‘Not until his mum told me and showed me the ring. We’d talked about it many times. I guess it was always a question of when rather than if, as both he and I always wanted to get married. We were hoping to have the whole fairy-tale white wedding one day.’
‘I’m sorry to ask, but had you had any sign at all that Ed might have been unhappy? I have to convince the coroner to rule this a homicide.’
Like Amanda Teigan, she volunteered her phone. ‘Look at my texts, listen to my voicemails, look through my photos. Nothing anywhere in there shows a man at the end of his rope. Take it into evidence if you have to. Ed was not suicidal.’
One glance through her phone, and Morton was convinced. The smile on Ed’s face, the look in his eye, the flirty tone of his texts, showed a man wildly in love, deliriously happy, and looking forward to the future. There was no longer any doubt in his mind. Ed Teigan had been murdered.
Chapter 22: Scopolamine
‘What about scopolamine?’
Chiswick turned to look at Morton as if he were an idiot. ‘Overrated. I tried it once and woke up three days later in a bush, buck naked, with no recollection of where I’d been.’
‘Very funny, Doc,’ Morton said. ‘But I’m being serious. Doesn’t it cause disinhibition?’
‘Disinhibition, yes. Mind control? No. Nobody dosed Ed Teigan with scopolamine. Even if they had done so, the killer would have had to lift him over a four-foot ledge and roll him off the top of the building. There are much easier, much less physical, ways to kill. And he’d have been bruised from that sort of lift.’
Morton just looked at him. ‘Did you see any bruises?’
Chiswick stared back. ‘I didn’t notice any, no.’
‘The absence of noticing isn’t the same as the absence of bruises,’ Morton said, smiling sweetly.
‘You’re not going anywhere until I get Ed Teigan out of cold storage, are you?’ Chiswick asked. He’d seen Morton play this game before, and Morton was always a pain in the bum.
‘Nope.’ Morton perched himself against the wall as if to emphasise the point.
‘Fine.’
Five minutes later, Chiswick’s assistant, or diener, wheeled Ed Teigan into Autopsy Room One. Chiswick lit the body up with ultraviolet light.
‘Look, no bruises,’ Chiswick said. ‘He wasn’t shoved, pushed, punched, kicked, or otherwise physically forced over the ledge.’
‘So, he did kill himself.’
‘All signs point to yes,’ Chiswick said.
‘Except for the fact that he called to confirm a restaurant booking twenty minutes before he died. Doesn’t that strike you as a weird thing to do right before killing yourself?’
‘I suppose,’ Chiswick said grudgingly as he covered Ed Teigan back up. ‘There’s nothing to suggest he was murdered, though.’
‘Don’t you find it weird that we’ve had three victims all die at ten o’clock on a Saturday night, and two of them are Rafferty’s first cases? Saturday is never a quiet night, but the odds of that must be astronomical.’
Chiswick turned to face him. ‘That is odd. I’d write off two in a row as weird, but if you’re right, three is more than a coincidence. The problem is that getting to three means taking a simple suicide and turning it into a murder. There’s no way to prove that.’
‘Can you at least push for an open verdict?’
‘I can try.’
***
The chief wasn’t in until the next morning. After her Tuesday morning Pilates, she rolled into the office just before lunch and looked very surprised to see Morton waiting for her.
‘David, I don’t believe we have an appointment,’ she said with false sweetness. She stopped dead in the corridor and didn’t invite him into her office.
‘We don’t,’ Morton said. ‘I’m here about a miscarriage of justice. Ed Teigan died on Saturday night. It has been preliminarily ruled a suicide. I think it’s a murder.’
‘You’re not being assigned a case,’ Silverman said bluntly. ‘And this is not a case.’
She walked into her office, leaving a gobsmacked Morton standing in the hallway. For a moment, he stood there slack-jawed, and then he felt the anger begin to build. He roughly shoved open the door to Silverman’s office and barged in.
‘How dare you!’ he yelled. ‘I tell you a man has been murdered, and your first thought is to make it about you and me? Have you no sense of justice? Ed Teigan was a happy man making plans for a bright future with his beautiful girlfriend. He had absolutely no reason to kill himself.’
‘And you have absolutely no evidence he didn’t. Now, get out. If you ever barge into my office uninvited again, you’ll be fired. Do I make myself clear? This is for the coroner’s office. Until and unless they rule it homicide, nobody in
this building is to do a damned thing, and that includes you.’
Morton stormed out, apoplectic with rage. Screw Silverman. He’d get justice for Ed Teigan even if it cost him his job.
Chapter 23: Coincidences
Technically, Rafferty wasn’t supposed to talk to Morton about her cases – but Ed Teigan wasn’t a case at all. They met over lunchtime on Wednesday in the Red Lion, a Fuller’s that was usually more popular with politicians than policemen.
‘Are you sure he wasn’t hiding something?’ Rafferty asked dubiously.
‘Great,’ Morton said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Now you’re doubting my judgement too?’
‘You’ve got to admit that it’s weird, boss. He definitely jumped. There’s no way he could have been pushed without bruising somewhere, shy of someone literally lifting him over their head and launching him clean over a four-foot obstacle.’
‘He didn’t kill himself,’ Morton said adamantly. ‘And three murders in a row on three consecutive Saturdays, at the same time? That’s unheard of.’
‘Approximately the same time,’ Rafferty said reasonably. She picked at her halloumi salad as she spoke. ‘We don’t know for sure they all died at exactly ten o’clock. That would be weird, but we don’t have that information. And, like Silverman said, you’re including a possible suicide in the series. Ed Teigan is not an open case.’
‘I’m not wrong, Rafferty. I wish I was. But I’d bet you dollars to doughnuts that there’ll be a fourth victim come Saturday night at ten. We’ve got a pattern.’
Rafferty set her fork down and sighed. ‘What pattern?’
‘The timings!’
‘But nothing else. One woman shot in an alleyway, one Member of Parliament gassed to death under the noses of his protective detail, and a suicide. There’s no pattern there.’
‘You’re just not seeing it. The odds–’
‘Of three murders on successive Saturdays are astronomical,’ Rafferty finished for him. ‘Silverman is never going to believe you.’
‘And neither do you,’ Morton said, his disappointment evident in his voice. ‘I thought I’d earned a bit of trust. I guess not.’
***
Morton made an appointment this time, albeit at short notice. Silverman could hardly refuse to see him when he was warning of an impending murder.
‘What is it now, David?’ she’d demanded as soon as he walked in.
‘Rafferty’s three cases–’
‘Are none of your business,’ Silverman said firmly.
‘Look,’ Morton said through gritted teeth. ‘I know you don’t like me. That’s obvious. But if I’m right, and this is a serial killer, they’re going to strike again, and we know exactly when. The last three murders all happened on Saturday night at ten. Are you going to just sit there and let the next one happen?’
‘Yes,’ Silverman said flatly, folding her hands on her lap. ‘That’s a risk I’m willing to take. It’s clearly a concoction you’ve dreamt up to try to get back to active duty. It won’t work. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.’
‘But, Chief!’
‘Goodbye, David.’
‘I’m not going unless you tell me you’re responsible for the next death.’
‘I won’t be responsible for the next death because there won’t be one. Get out, David. You’re spent, past it, done. You’re never getting back control of a murder investigation team.’
Morton stood firm. ‘Oh, I will.’
‘Over my dead body.’
Morton smiled sweetly. That, he thought, could be arranged.
Chapter 24: The Good Samaritan
I lurked in the alleyway for a good twenty minutes, an unlit cigarette perched between my lips. A few of those who passed me by looked curious for a moment, but moved on when I asked to borrow a light.
Timing was key. There were gardens backing onto the alleyway, all fenced in and several of them dark. I watched until I was sure which one would give me the seclusion I needed.
The brick lay at my feet, concealed by my bag.
It was almost exactly ten when I saw my victim. He was older, unsteady on his feet, and he shuffled along like a broken man. I wasn’t really taking that much from him – only the last few years of misery.
As he passed, I asked again for a light. He stopped, apologised, and shuffled on. A quick look up and down the alleyway revealed nobody else in sight. I stooped as if to tie my shoes, picked up the concealed brick, stepped forward, and whacked him hard about the head.
He fell, landing unconscious with a thud. Another glance in both directions showed me the coast was still clear. I dragged him, hands under armpits, into one of the abandoned gardens. I needed to be quick. The bag came out again. Inside was a bag of iron ball bearings. This was the part I had been looking forward to least. I pulled the man’s trousers down as he faced the dirt. I pulled a face, swallowed hard, and donned the gloves. Less than a minute later, the ball bearings were inside him. I quickly took his wallet, pocketed the money, and threw the empty wallet on the ground. With another motion I turned the soiled gloves inside out and placed them into a Ziploc bag in my pocket to get rid of later.
I propped my victim up, pulled him to his feet, shoved him back into the alleyway, and then half-carried him in the direction of the Royal London. A passer-by soon came upon us.
‘Help! I found him like this. Someone must have hit him over the head. He needs a doctor!’
The man looked nervous. ‘Shall I call an ambulance?’ he said in an accent I didn’t recognise.
‘No, just help me carry him. It’s only just over there!’ I pointed towards the sign denoting the entrance to the Accident and Emergency department.
No sooner had we crossed Stepney Way than paramedics emerged from a parked ambulance. They jogged over towards us quickly.
‘What happened to him?’ one asked.
‘He was hit over the head,’ said the thickly accented man. ‘That’s all we know.’
‘We’ll take it from here,’ said the other paramedic.
Before I knew it, my job as the apparently good Samaritan was done. The man was taken inside, and they knew he had a head injury. All I had to do now was wait. Assuming they followed protocol, I had just committed the world’s most original murder.
***
Nicole Wheelan had spent her life working for the NHS. She was one of a handful of MRI technicians at the Royal London, and today she was the unlucky soul who was in charge of the MRI machine when an old man was stretchered in to be looked at. It seemed routine because it was: the patient presented with a minor head injury, seemed woozy but competent, so she had to check for evidence of resting state changes that would suggest post-concussion syndrome.
She did the usual checks for metal before they began: belt, watch, pockets, glasses and the like. He seemed semi-conscious when she pressed the microphone button and told him to relax.
The job was a simple one for Nicky. She pressed a few buttons, pulled up the images, and sent them where they needed to go. Her training wasn’t about pressing buttons at manic speed, but rather knowing which button to press.
She fired up the machine and ran the boot-up sequence that primed the electromagnetic field within, then slid the tray on which the man was lying into the machine. It was a head injury this time, so the MRI was a small, tightly focussed search for any signs of concussion. The man groaned, presumably from his head pain.
‘It’ll be okay, sir,’ Nicky said comfortingly. ‘You may feel a little claustrophobia, which is perfectly normal. If anything feels uncomfortable, I can pull you right out of there. Are you ready?’
When he didn’t object, Nicky pressed the button to engage the MRI machine. The machine whirred to life, and that was when she heard the most atrocious noise. It was bone-splitting, followed by the sound of metal clanging against metal at ultra-high velocity. The poor old man barely had time to scream.
Blood exploded everywhere, like a Jackson Pollock painting.
Nicky slammed her fist against the emergency stop button. The machine spun back down to zero in less than thirty seconds, and the helium gas contained within, over £25,000 worth, hissed out.
The door to the operator booth banged against the wall as Nicky darted out to see what had happened.
She screamed.
Where moments earlier an old man had been in the MRI machine, all that was now left resembled tiny pieces of offal. Ball bearings were stuck against the magnets, and they began to clatter down as the machine finished turning off, a rain of bloody iron filings falling among the smashed-up corpse of an elderly man.
One final scream escaped Nicky as she bolted from the room. She didn’t know where she was running. She just had to get out.
***
None of the staff really wanted to look, but they all seemed compelled to. Everyone knew the risks of using a giant electromagnet. There had been incidents over the years: workmen had lost tools, earrings had been ripped from earlobes, and the occasional coin had ripped through clothing. Never before had a man been eviscerated from the inside by what appeared to be ball bearings.
Speculation was running rife. Where had the ball bearings come from? Why had he had them? The higher-ups were already checking the insurance policies. Losing the helium was bad, but if the machine had been damaged beyond repair, they’d be looking at a loss running to seven figures.
Human Resources, and their in-house legal team, were on top of it in no time. By the time the police arrived on the scene, they had compiled everything they had. The patient’s file, the triage nurse’s observations, even the CCTV of him being helped inside by paramedics.
One thing bothered them more than anything. There was no record of the paramedics picking him up. No doubt that was just missing paperwork.
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 61
