Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel)

by Campbell, Sean

  ***

  By half past midday, Finnigan's Wake was heaving with the lunch crowd. The barman decided that Edwin might put off the regular diners and shifted him to a booth in the back when he was joined by his brother-in-law, Mark.

  Mark was always the first to agree to a session in the pub, and ever the Wyvern, he soon filled the booth with beers. The fries from Edwin's lunch lay abandoned as the pair got down to the serious business of drinking.

  Sometime during his third beer with Mark, Edwin's phone rang. He normally hated answering withheld numbers but his mood was vitriolic and he wanted nothing more than to verbally unload on some unsuspecting telesales person.

  'Edwin J Murphy speaking.' Edwin held the phone at arm's length, and giggled as he put on a plummy accent.

  'Good afternoon, Mr Murphy, this is Caroline Flack from Huntingdon Fox and Associates. Last week, your secretary retained me on your behalf. I contacted your wife's solicitors. She has given us notice that she intends to leave the country. Are you available to discuss your legal position?'

  'My position? I'm glad she's leaving. Good riddance,' Edwin spat, not realising the repercussions of his wife's leaving.

  'She intends to take Chelsea to New York with her,' the solicitor said hesitantly.

  'Stop her. I don't care how, just do it.'

  'Mr Murphy, it may be... difficult to find proper grounds to challenge her.'

  An anguished moan escaped from the drunken man as he threw his phone against the wall, watching it shatter into dozens of pieces.

  'That bitch. I wish she was dead!'

  Mark arched an eyebrow, and said after a slightly-too-long pause: 'Hey, that's my sister you're talking about. I think it's time to cut you off.'

  ***

  The next morning, Edwin's head felt like a pneumatic drill had been placed at his temple and set to maximum. He tried to sit up but the effort proved to be in vain. As his eyes slid into focus Edwin realised he was on Mark's sofa.

  Mark was splayed across the opposite armchair. Both men were wearing the same clothes as the day (and night) before.

  'Water,' Edwin hoarsely demanded of his host.

  With a thud Mark tossed a bottle towards him. It landed on Edwin's stomach with a thud. Edwin groaned in pain.

  'That's not water,' he complained, always grumpy in the mornings anyway, but even more so with the hangover from hell.

  'It's all you're getting unless you want to get up,' Mark replied with a grin, safe in the knowledge that Edwin was going nowhere fast.

  Edwin, ungrateful, twisted the top off the bottle of Lucozade and drained the whole bottle into his parched mouth, a few drops missing and dribbling down his cheek to rest on his collar.

  Mark slowly stretched out, picked up the television remote between his toes, and then kicked the remote up and caught it left-handed.

  'Got any preferences?' he asked, flipping on both the television and the surround-sound system that his sister had bought him the previous Christmas.

  'Anything but Jeremy Kyle.'

  Mark smirked, and changed the channel to ITV.

  'I hate you, you know that.' With that declaration Edwin turned over and went back to sleep.

  ***

  Edwin's hangover persisted late into the day, and his head was still throbbing as he entered the premises of Huntingdon Fox for his four o'clock meeting. Edwin was vaguely aware of the opulence of the law firm's Grosvenor address. He wondered how much of the four hundred pounds per hour fee he was being billed for would be spent maintaining the extravagant decor. The anteroom he was shown to could be described as no less than opulent, and the coffee was clearly not instant. He was soon sat face-to-face with his lawyer. He hadn't chosen her, but his former secretary had assured him she was the best available, and Betty had never led him astray. A pang of loneliness struck Edwin as he realised just how much he had taken Betty's comforting presence for granted.

  'Hello,' Edwin croaked. His head pounded as he read the golden nameplate on the lawyer's desk, Mrs Caroline Flack MA (Hons) (Cantab) LLM (Londis).

  'Mr Murphy, I asked you here today to discuss your estranged wife. Have you been in contact with her?'

  Edwin shook his head, and his lawyer continued her spiel.

  'Eleanor has notified us she intends to move to New York to pursue work with a law firm there. She obviously intends to take Chelsea with her. She can do this without your permission, although we can file for what is known as a "First Steps Order" to prevent her. We would need to show the court good reason to prevent her doing so.'

  'OK. Do it.'

  'This would involve our demonstrating the move is out of malice, or that the move would prevent you from the contact you are entitled to. However, Eleanor's solicitor has confirmed in writing that she would cover the costs of flying Chelsea back to the UK each year over the holidays to see you. It is unlikely that any court will issue such an order on the evidence we have available to us. The court's primary concern is for Chelsea, and Eleanor's proposal may well be sufficient to demonstrate that the best place for her is in New York.'

  'So there's no point contesting it?'

  'We can contest it, but you would probably not gain anything.' Mrs Flack paused for a moment to sip some water before continuing.

  'The other reason I wanted to talk to you is to discuss disposition of your assets in the divorce. Eleanor has cited both irreconcilable differences and unreasonable behaviour as grounds.'

  'She thinks I work too much.'

  'We could file a cross petition, but again this would require substantial grounds such as her unreasonable behaviour or adultery.'

  'So I'm screwed.' It was a statement, not a question. The lawyer didn't deny it.

  'Fine!' Edwin snarled. He almost added 'I'll deal with her myself' but thought better of it. The lawyer carried on for a few more minutes, but Edwin tuned her out. By the time he emerged back into Grosvenor, sunlight was fading fast.

  ***

  Edwin thumped a fist on his makeshift desk in anger, causing his mug to leap into the air. It landed on the kitchen floor, cracked and spilt the last drops of coffee onto the laminate. Edwin ignored the mess, rested his hands on the edge of the laptop and typed furiously.

  Access Denied flashed across his screen in a blinking bold type. The website he was trying to use was hidden from the public. It wasn't like visiting any old website. It wasn't listed on Google.

  This was a darknet site, part of the no-man's-land that few ever ventured onto. Edwin had first found it when he was an undergraduate doing his journalism degree, and writing up the story of a lifetime: a hidden marketplace for accessing illegal goods and services. Drugs, pornography and much more could be bought anonymously, for a price.

  The technology wasn't illegal. The United States government had created it for espionage, valuing the ability to send and receive anonymous messages. It had only been a matter of time before the technology had been co-opted by criminals.

  Edwin was never allowed to publish the article. The editor of the university paper had glanced at it, and immediately vetoed publication as not being in the public interest. With hindsight, it was probably the right decision. The ability to access a web of criminal activity could prove deadly in the wrong hands.

  Edwin entered the right logon credentials, and the laptop beeped three times to indicate a successful connection. Edwin had taken every precaution possible. He had not connected directly to the darknet, but used a series of proxy computers. The effect was like a daisy chain – it was impossible to see where the link began and ended.

  Edwin clicked to create a message, enabling a virtual drop box for replies.

  Even with his many precautions he was still cautious about what to type.

  'Problem solver needed. One problem to fix. Final solution required. Pay negotiable.'

  Edwin reread his message. He wasn't sure it would get his intentions across but hopefully it would pique some interest somewhere.

  CHAPTER 2: RED SPOT />
  When his son was born, Yosef Gershwin had paced back and forth frantically.

  'Cigarette to calm your nerves, bud?' another of the expectant fathers had asked.

  'Thanks, but I'm on the patch.' Yosef slid his sleeve up to reveal a nicotine patch attached.

  'Wise. How about a cup of coffee then?'

  Yosef smiled He was about to ask if the man had anything stronger when a nurse called out his name to take him through to the recovery room. It was the proudest day of Yosef's life, seeing his son for the first time. He was tiny, and hairless, but he was beautiful.

  A year later, Yosef was back in a similar waiting room, but for a much less joyous occasion. Little baby Zachariah was nestled in his broad arms, swaddled in a blanket. The boy yawned, a tremendous effort in his condition.

  Just as he was debating calling his wife yet again to let her know they were still waiting, a nurse appeared and led him through to the consultant.

  He sat, this time in a much comfier chair, and surveyed the consultant's office. It was leaps and bounds ahead of the waiting room, but still in keeping with the hospital's apparent minimalism.

  'I'll be straight to the point. The blood test we conducted shows Zachariah has a deficiency of beta-hexosaminidase. This is an enzyme that breaks down fatty acids in the brain known as gangliocides. The condition is more commonly known as Tay-Sachs disease.'

  'What does it mean? More importantly, how do we fix it?'

  'Zachariah's nerves will become progressively distended. He will lose the ability to see and hear. He may be unable to move any muscles, which will necessitate the use of a feeding tube. His seizures will become more violent, and Zachariah will be prone to recurring infections. I'm sorry, Yosef, but there is no cure.'

  'Why him? What did he do to deserve this?' Yosef was no longer talking to his consultant, but pleading with God for his son.

  'I'm afraid it's quite common in the Jewish population. Is your wife also Jewish?'

  'What? No, she's not. She's from Slovakia.'

  'No Jewish blood at all on her side of the family?'

  'Not as far as I know. Are you sure the diagnosis is even right?'

  'I'm afraid so. The blood test is straightforward. I only ask as, while the Jewish population have an incidence of around 1 in 3000, it's closer to 1 in 40000 in the general population.'

  'Would it happen again if we had another child?'

  'It's possible. The gene that causes the problem is recessive. Both parents have to be carriers, and this gives any child of their union a 1 in 4 chance of having Tay-Sachs. Even if they don't have Tay-Sachs it's likely that they would be a carrier.'

  'So what happens now?' Yosef asked.

  'Well, we will medicate for the convulsions, and monitor Zachariah twice a month to see how his condition progresses. If he needs a tube to keep his airways open then we will address it when the problem arises. If you have any concerns call me, or bring him in straight away. We'll also put you in touch with a support group for other Tay-Sachs parents here in London.'

  'Thank you, Doctor.'

  ***

  Edwin checked his darknet account. Nothing: his subtlety had gone unappreciated. He shrugged and pulled his keyboard closer. He ran the same routine precautions as before, concealing his whereabouts using proxies. Again, he took the time to spoof his MAC address, concealing the physical identity of the laptop. This time, he was sure, the messages simply could not be traced back to him. He typed out a new message, deleting the old one as he did so. The time for being coy was over, and Edwin chose to be completely forthright in his new message. 'Contractor needed to eliminate nuisance. Target is mid-thirties. London based job. Contact for further details.' Satisfied, Edwin hit enter and the message floated into cyberspace for all to see.

  ***

  This time a response came back quickly. In stilted English, the reply informed Edwin that a clean hit could be performed for the fee of £50,000. Payment would be in cash via a drop-box location, and Edwin would never see the killer.

  Edwin began to mull it over before he realised how absurd his plan was. While he might be able to scrounge together the cash, it would be child's play for the police to put two and two together. The husband is always the police's first suspect, and with Edwin as the sole beneficiary of Eleanor's rather generous life insurance policy, the police would go over his finances with a fine tooth comb. A £50,000 deficit would stick out like a sore thumb, and Edwin would end up in prison before he could say "It wasn't me."

  Then the insurance company would never pay out, and Edwin would lose Chelsea to the foster system. It simply wasn't viable. Edwin would have to find another way.

  ***

  Yosef felt the tension of being a carer flood from his shoulder as he listened to Natan talk. Nat was the leader of the only Tay-Sachs support group in London. Nat had lost a daughter to the disease, but still ran the close-knit group. He had welcomed Yosef warmly the first time he'd walked in, embracing him and baby Zachariah as members of their community.

  Nat spoke in a slow, sombre voice that contrasted sharply with his jovial features. He glanced around the room as he spoke, making eye contact with each group member in turn. Nat's grief was still raw, but somehow Yosef found his voice comforting and familiar. Yosef let his mind, and his eyes, wander. He looked around the hall, which had been donated by the Islington Synagogue for their use every other Thursday. It was a small gesture but without it the support group would not exist.

  A small cry escaped from Zach's pram as he woke, bringing Yosef's attention back into the moment. He apologised for the disturbance, and picked the boy up gingerly to try and calm him down.

  Zach's decline had been swift. He had seemed to grow normally for several months, and Yosef almost believed that the diagnosis had been wrong. Sadly, the set of tests confirmed his worst fears: Zach was suffering from the usual signs of Tay-Sachs. Not long after that, partial paralysis began to set in, and Zachariah became disabled before he had learned to walk.

  The cherry-red bright spots in his eyes had been the red flag. Yosef knew his boy would be unlikely to make it past four years of age. The others in the group were further along that awful road. Even now, one woman, Maya, was making her first appearance in the group in months. Maya's daughter had suffered infection after infection, and had been in hospital for over a year.

  Yosef squirmed in his seat, imagining Zachariah suffering that same agony, unable to speak or swallow, and barely able to breathe unassisted. Yosef's sense of calm dissipated as he realised once again just how hopeless it was being the carer for a terminal child.

  Guilt clutched at Yosef's heart. He had brought this little boy into the world, and it was because of his Jewish ancestry that the boy suffered. He bowed his head in prayer, and made a silent vow that he would not prolong the boy's agony.

  CHAPTER 3: THE PLAN

  Life had been quiet for Edwin since leaving The Impartial. With no job to go to, no work to do, and no child to look after he had found himself at a bit of a loose end. For the first few days Edwin had drifted. He had allowed himself to sleep in, to watch daytime TV and to avoid physical exertion generally. He had begun to fall into a stupor. The wakeup call came in an unusual form for Edwin. It was when he realised that he could hum the theme tunes to the major morning television shows that he started to appreciate that, job or no job, he needed some sort of daily routine.

  He set his alarm for six o'clock sharp, the time he used to get up for work at The Impartial. He forced himself to get dressed, as if he was going to work, but instead spent his mornings at the gym. Edwin didn't consider himself unfit, but he certainly had a slight paunch that had not been there when he was at university. He resolved to get back into trim during his time out from work, which he described to friends as a "career hiatus".

  Once he had finished in the gym Edwin's daily routine was to take his laptop and abuse the free Wi-Fi in the British Library to hunt for jobs. It was an auspicious setting that helped Edwin to focus
, and he was soon fielding phone calls from recruitment consultants, agents and human resources departments. The loss of work at The Impartial was a blot on his résumé but he was still an exceptionally strong candidate. With a first-class undergraduate degree as well as his MBA, many doors were still open to him.

  It was scant surprise therefore that within a week Edwin had secured a telephone interview with a business periodical in Vancouver. It was a slightly different role to editing The Impartial but Edwin was up for a new challenge and he soon wowed the director for human resources in the telephone interview. She was so impressed with his work ethic that he received an invitation to an in-person interview to take place in one week's time.

  ***

  Edwin liked to do his thinking when it was particularly quiet. He had always found that late in the evening was a particularly productive time for him. As the witching hour approached, the number of distractions decreased exponentially. His phone remained mute, and his social media accounts were of little interest while everyone else was asleep.

  Edwin pondered on his problems. A new job might ease the cash flow, but his wife was claiming virtually all their liquid assets and an on-going payment to maintain the lifestyle to which she had become accustomed. After adding in sale fees for the house, child support and the chance of being out of work for a while, Edwin realised that claiming on Eleanor's life insurance policy might be the only way out. He laughed as he realised that the insurance had effectively become a bounty payment for her murder.

  The cold mirth echoed around the room, and Edwin clapped his hand over his mouth. He couldn't risk waking the neighbours.

  The best thing about the quiet of the night was that it allowed Edwin to make connections in his mind that never seemed to occur to him during daylight hours. It was almost as if his neurons kept working hours that were the direct antithesis of Edwin's waking hours.

  Whether it was the silence, or a by-product of his raw desire to carve out a plan, Edwin's brain began to map out a plan to eliminate his wife. He had been on the right track with using the darknet. It was sufficiently anonymous to fox the Metropolitan Police, and it seemed to work. It had, after all, already led him to a contact who appeared to be an assassin.