‘David! Sly here.’
‘Hi, Sly. I’m in a bit of a pickle. One of your boys, Danny Hulme-Whitmore, is a suspect in a murder investigation.’
‘Murder? Danny boy? You’re kidding.’
‘I’m afraid not. What do you know about him?’
‘He’s brilliant,’ Sly said. ‘He was undercover for me for years.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Investigating the Bakowski Crime Syndicate, what else? They’ve moved more coke through central London in the last month than the Kray twins did in a decade. Even with Tiny on the run.’
A shiver ran down Morton’s spine. One of the worst gangsters in London, Tiny Bakowski was the prime suspect in an old murder case. He’d evaded capture by fleeing overseas to God knew where. Morton had managed to get both of his brothers, but the main man was an enigma.
‘He knows Tiny?’
‘Danny was well on his way to becoming Tiny’s right-hand man. By the time we pulled him out, Danny had worked his way right into the inner circle.’
The chill wouldn’t leave Morton. Long after he’d finished his call with Sly, the name Tiny Bakowski continued to ring in his head. The murders were personal. It was between him and the killer.
Could Danny Hulme-Whitmore have crossed that line? Could he be hunting victims down to taunt Morton at the behest of Tiny Bakowski? If so, why now? Why these victims? None of this made sense.
***
Ayala had been tasked with finding Crispin Babbage. Thanks to the involvement of Counter Terrorism, Ayala didn’t have to justify intrusions into the suspect’s life as much as he normally would. As Kieran had explained, the case of Leander v Sweden gave states significant authority to breach human rights in the pursuit of counterterrorism. Ayala was concerned at how easy it was. Without much more than a name, he was able to have Crispin’s phone traced.
He found Crispin in a gaming bar in Stoke Newington. It was, rather fittingly, called the Loading Bar. Crispin was oblivious to the world, his mind concentrated on his computer game. Ayala snuck up slowly behind him
‘Babbage!’ he shouted from behind. ‘What’re you doing?’
Crispin leapt out of his seat. As he jumped, he knocked his pint of beer to the floor. It landed with a smash so loud, half the bar turned around to mockingly applaud him.
When the attention had subsided, Crispin look at Ayala ruefully. ‘That wasn’t nice.’
‘Neither is murder.’
‘What on earth are you on about?’
Ayala decided to test him. ‘I think you killed them.’
‘Preposterous!’ Crispin cried. ‘Why on earth would you think that?’
‘We know, Crispin. We know that fire turns you on.’
‘Who told you that? It’s a lie.’ He had begun to turn a pale shade of beetroot.
Ayala slowly shook his head, hoping to come across as disapproving. ‘Don’t lie, Babbage. It won’t do you any good. We have your computer records.’
Denial gave way to anger, then pleading, and finally, acceptance.
‘Fuck you! How dare you?’ Crispin balled his hands into fists as if he wanted to strike Ayala down. ‘Please. Don’t tell anyone. I didn’t do it much. I can’t... I can’t help it.’
Ayala looked at the pathetic wretch before him and questioned how on earth they had rated him a ten. He didn’t have the spine to kill in cold blood.
‘Why do you do it?’
‘I don’t know. Don’t you think I’d stop if I did? This isn’t what I want. I’m ill, okay?’
Ayala’s quick tongue got the better of him. ‘How did you pass the psych test?’
‘Please,’ Crispin begged. ‘I can’t lose this job. All I’ve ever wanted to do is become a detective. Don’t take that away from me. I’ll do anything. I can help! I know who the killer is.’
‘Isn’t that something the killer would say?’
‘I... I suppose.’
‘Who do you think it is?’
‘It’s... it’s Eric. His name isn’t really Eric.’
‘What?’
‘I went to school with Eric O’Shaughnessy. He died ten years ago. Hearing his name annoyed me from the first lecture onwards. It could have been coincidence, but Eric doesn’t even sound Irish. The man calling himself Eric isn’t Eric. His real name is Taylor Bailey.’
What the hell? Ayala stared. How could Eric O’Shaughnessy be someone else entirely?
‘Can you prove this?’ he asked.
‘I can.’
He did.
***
‘Boss?’ Ayala said. ‘We have a problem. Eric O’Shaughnessy is not Eric O’Shaughnessy.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The real Eric O’Shaughnessy is dead. Our man is an imposter. Crispin went to school with the real Eric. He’s been digging into the imposter for weeks, and then got blackmailed into silence when he confronted him. Somehow, the imposter learned about Crispin’s fetish. I don’t know how. The imposter is Eric’s cousin, Taylor Bailey. He’s a former psychiatric in-patient at Maudsley.’
‘How on earth did we miss that?’ Morton’s voice was shot through with anger.
‘The real Eric died on holiday. He drowned when his boat capsized in Greece. It was never registered here.’
‘Shit. Bring him in.’
Chapter 46: The Trap
Morton had his own problems to deal with. If Ayala was right, Eric was a fraud, and not a very good one, at that. It didn’t make him a killer, but Morton hoped he was. If Ayala had the killer in custody, then London was safe.
Until then, Morton had to proceed as if nothing had happened. His own remaining assignee was Danny. It was time to cajole an alibi from him by any means necessary. He didn’t want another Sully moment; the timings were too tight. With two days left on the clock, he couldn’t afford to make a mistake.
He called Villiers on his mobile.
‘Kane, I need you to do something for me.’
***
Villiers agreed to the plan in no time, and Morton watched from a distance as Villiers met Danny Hulme-Whitmore outside the British Library. They sat on a bench facing the south entrance. Through the wire Villiers was wearing, Morton could hear everything.
‘Forty quid an eighth? You been smoking your own product, Danny?’
Morton imagined Danny grinning, though from the distance, he couldn’t make out much more than two blobs on a bench.
‘I don’t smoke this shit. Now, do you want it or not? You called me, remember?’
‘It’s good shit, right?’
‘Only the best.’
‘Fine.’
‘Cheers. Pleasure doing business with you.’
That was it. Transaction complete. Morton briskly strode towards Danny as he walked away and tapped him on the shoulder. As Danny spun to face him, his face dropped. Morton could see him tense as if he wanted to run.
‘Uh, hi, sir. Lovely night for a stroll.’
‘Danny Hulme-Whitmore, you’re under arrest for possession of marijuana with the intent to supply. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘What the hell? You set this up?’ Danny eyed him angrily. ‘It’s just weed!’
‘And murder is just murder.’
‘Murder? I ain’t no murderer.’
‘Prove it. Where were you last Saturday?’
‘Dealing! Look, I’ll give you my clients if you want. I’ll tell you where I was. I’ll bet there’s some CCTV nearby that’ll show me walking past.’
‘You’re still under arrest.’
Two down, six to go.
***
Eric didn’t lawyer up when Ayala arrested him. He seemed almost relieved to be dragged into New Scotland Yard on fraud charges.
Ayala half-wondered if he had an obligation to find him a lawyer anyway when he was clearly not completely compos mentis. While Taylo
r Bailey stewed in the interview room, Ayala looked into his background. To his surprise, he found his Facebook profile easily. It seemed that Eric really had been his own cousin.
‘You aren’t Eric O’Shaughnessy.’
‘No.’
‘Why did you pretend to be him?’
‘Because you,’ Taylor said, jabbing a finger at Ayala, ‘wouldn’t let me become a police officer.’
‘You tried to join the force under your own name?’
‘Uh-huh,’ Taylor murmured.
‘What happened?’
‘I failed the psych exam. That was last year. This year I became Eric, and I had someone sit the test for me.’
Jesus, Ayala thought. How much worse could the background checking have been?
‘Why do you want to be a detective?’
‘I want to give back. I want to help the community. I want to be respected. Nobody ever treats me with respect. I’m not crazy!’
‘Okay...’ Ayala watched him and felt a sense of pity. This wretch could no more plot four murders than Ayala could learn to fly by flapping his arms as fast as he could.
Three down, five to go.
***
Rafferty felt like the odd one out. It seemed she was the only one not able to arrest the students she was assigned to investigate. Both Rudd and Maisie seemed positively tame by comparison. No drug dealing, no hidden identity, no refusal to offer up an alibi. They’d been rated low risk early on, and Rafferty stood by that assessment. Who had ever heard of a female serial killer? Other than the handful working with a male partner, like Myra Hindley, it was unheard of.
Rudd was interesting. They had been born biologically male. That much was in the personnel records. They’d passed the fitness test set for men, which had higher physical standards than the equivalent women’s exam. It seemed weird to cast off that privilege and then bemoan the old boys’ club.
Rafferty had to respect them for that. Doing it the hard way was much easier than simply accepting a place among the privileged few. They had a bit of a victim complex, and they certainly isolated themselves, but the interview they had done with Babbage had been lucid, eloquent, and principled. It was not, Rafferty thought, the tirade of a murderer.
Thursday was drawing to a close. Rafferty pinged Morton a quick text by way of status update, and then made the decision to call it a night. No doubt Friday would be even more stressful, and Rafferty knew she’d need a proper night’s sleep to face what could lie ahead.
Chapter 47: Desperate Times
He had made a promise, and he intended to keep his word. With great reluctance, Morton had to accept Kieran’s proposal of using Ayala as bait.
It could backfire. If the killer didn’t react as predicted, Morton could wind up with blood on his hands. But if he didn’t act, he’d almost certainly have blood on his hands.
As Morton saw it, he had three tasks. First, he had to talk to the families in person and let them know about the gambit. He couldn’t be responsible for hanging Ayala out to dry.
Second, he had to make sure the press were there when he arrested Ayala. A quick call to Martin Grant at The Impartial would sort that. The man was a gossip, and he’d tell every journalist he knew if he thought there was a free glass of wine in it for him.
Third, the easiest task. He had to delegate the interrogation of Sulaiman Haadi al-Djani. Antonov from the Counter Terrorism Command was still in the building, and he’d do perfectly. He had, so far, been oddly distant. He clearly didn’t consider himself a part of Morton’s team, not that he should. He had a standoffish personality which was at odds with the collaborative environment that Morton strived to foster.
With a yawn, Morton picked up the phone.
***
Antonov had initially objected to being ‘assigned’ to conduct an interrogation. He had acquiesced only when he learned of Sulaiman Haadi al-Djani’s impressive curriculum vitae.
The man held a doctorate in psychology and had researched risk factors in serial killers. He was oddly overqualified to be studying to become a mere detective. He was the sort of man the Counter Terrorism Command would usually poach for the profiling team, and a worthy adversary to face.
The tape recorder had been set, the formalities sorted, and the interview under caution began.
‘Hello, Sulaiman. My name is Antonov. You know why you’re here.’
Sully ground his teeth. ‘Because Morton’s a racist prick? Oh, yeah, the Libyan guy did it. How original.’
‘You think that’s why he asked you?’
‘He didn’t ask anyone else.’
‘Are you sure you simply weren’t the first?’ Antonov challenged him.
‘It’s not like I could know that. I’ve been under arrest, remember?’
‘He’s spoken to all of you.’
Sully’s expression softened slightly. ‘He still started with me.’
‘Are you still refusing to provide an alibi?’
‘I’m not saying anything,’ Sully said stubbornly.
He looked less cocksure. For a moment, Antonov wondered if he was about to ask for a lawyer.
‘Why is that?’
‘I’ve told you.’
Antonov sighed. Round and round in circles.
‘Sulaiman – can I call you Sulaiman?’
‘Just call me Sully. I hate it when people butcher the pronunciation of my name, anyway.’
‘Right,’ Antonov said. ‘Me too. You know we’re looking for a serial killer. You know what the signs are. What have you seen?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ Antonov echoed. ‘But in your doctoral thesis, this thesis,’ Antonov said, opening a folder containing a summary of Sully’s research, ‘you argued that epigenetic factors are the endogenous cause of violent psychopathy, did you not?’
‘So?’
‘So, how, in your opinion, do your classmates fit those risk factors?’
Sully frowned as if struggling to formulate his thoughts. ‘Well, Kane, Crispin, and Eric seem like the biggest risks.’
‘Because...?’
‘They’re men.’
‘Right. But what epigenetic risk factors are present?’
Sully stared blankly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said after a pause. ‘Are you here to interview me or ask me to consult on your case?’
‘A little from column A, a little from column B,’ Antonov said. He spread the pages of Sully’s research. ‘You said that the rMNA transcription rate changes as a result of diet and social interactions. How would you apply that today?’
‘I’d look for diet and social interactions.’
‘Like what?’ Antonov prompted again. He was growing impatient with Sully acting ignorant. ‘You researched MAO and SNAP proteins and their effect on violent tendencies. Would you attribute this to any of your colleagues?’
Sully didn’t answer.
He couldn’t answer.
There was no way in hell he’d written his PhD.
***
The families of the victims were collected by uniformed officers and brought to a spare conference room. Mrs Teigan arrived first. She hugged Morton the moment she saw him, grateful that he had taken her plea to investigate Ed’s death seriously. Brian King arrived second. He shook Morton’s hand, looked him in the eye, and promised he’d do whatever he could to avenge Angie’s death, whatever the press thought of their relationship.
Nobody came for Hudson Brown. Nobody loved him enough in death to turn up, even though Morton knew that his next of kin lived just down the road. Nor did anyone arrive on behalf of Donald Bickerstaff. When Morton was sure that Mrs Teigan and Brian were the only family members on the way, he began.
‘Thank you for coming. As you know, I’m investigating the deaths of Angie and Ed. I believe that we’re looking for a serial killer. After discussion with our in-house psychiatrist, we believe they’re matching wits with the force in a twisted game. To put it bluntly, they think they’re smarter than us. So far, they may b
e right.’
‘So, what can we do about it?’ King demanded.
‘We need to lure them out. Again, to borrow an analogy from our chief psychiatrist, it’s like a child playing Monopoly. The winning is only fun when your opponent is trying.’
Mrs Teigan leapt to her feet. ‘You want to give up? After I trusted you!’
‘No, Mrs Teigan,’ Morton said calmly. ‘I have no intention of giving up. I only want to make our killer think the game is over. To that end, I intend to stage a fake arrest to make our killer think we’ve found our man. If our hunch is right, this will provoke a reaction.’
‘A reaction?’ King asked. ‘What kind of reaction?’
‘Our psychiatrist believes the killer will reveal themselves in some way in order to show us how much smarter than us they are.’
‘You keep saying “us”,’ King said. ‘You mean you, don’t you? What’re you not telling us?’
Morton met his steely gaze with one of his own. ‘I mean us. I have only just been formally assigned to these cases. This is a calculated risk, and I will only proceed with your blessing. It’s our best hope at getting justice and preventing another murder. The clock is ticking, so what will it be?’
‘Do it,’ Mrs Teigan said. ‘Whatever it takes.’
‘I’ll support it,’ King said. ‘On one condition.’
‘Name it.’
‘I want to be there when you take the bastard down.’
Chapter 48: The Arrest
Ayala was arrested as he emerged from Westminster Station on Friday morning. Morton knew that an arrest at such a high-profile spot would get a great deal more publicity than arresting him at home.
Martin Grant had proved invaluable. The tip-off had ensured a healthy crowd of photojournalists were on the scene, and Morton’s presence drew them like flies to honey.
As Morton approached Ayala, he felt a twinge of guilt. Ayala was in for a very rough couple of days, and, despite his obvious innocence, there would no doubt be some members of the public who would see the initial arrest in the news and nothing more thereafter, and those people would forever tarnish Bertram Ayala’s stellar reputation.
Morton waited until the cameras were on him, nodded discreetly to Martin, and approached Ayala.
The DCI Morton Box Set Page 68
