'Ah don't fink so, pal. You were way slowa than I were,' Edwin slurred. He had become progressively more Irish with every tot.
'A bet's a bet, pal; £50 please, now.' The bigger man flexed his muscles, a tattoo stretching taut over his left bicep.
'Nar, dun tink so, buddy. Get lost.'
Seconds later fists were flying and the landlady was on the phone to the cops. Holborn Police Station was only a few hundred feet away and so within minutes both men found themselves in the drunk tank, its first occupants that evening.
CHAPTER 13: TOO FAR
Vanhi was more subtle with her alibi. She visited an old friend in the Scottish Highlands; far enough away that even flying wouldn't get her back in time to commit the crime. She made sure she took public transport. It would be impossible for a lone woman on foot to get back to London in time to commit a murder and not be seen. Fort Augustus was so far removed from the city not only geographically but in time too. Everything seemed to be done at a slower pace, and it was small enough that any stranger was the subject of much interest.
Vanhi took her friend out for dinner at a lovely restaurant on the pier. It was one of only three restaurants in Fort Augustus, and was by far the nicest. There were a few other parties there, but Vanhi's was the only one to stay for the entire evening enjoying themselves. By the time Vanhi collapsed into bed in the guest room at her friend's cottage she had all but forgotten that the trip was only a cover for an alibi.
CHAPTER 14: UNKNOWN TERRITORY
Barry had never killed someone before. He'd been in a few fights, but that was about it. He wondered how he should do it. He discounted poison straight away. He didn't have the know-how, and even if he did it just seemed too cowardly.
Barry knew his target lived in Brixton. It wasn't as rough as it had once been, but it was still pretty bad. Barry agreed to carry out the hit on the Sunday evening so the other guy could get an alibi in place. It hadn't taken long to find the target's house the previous week, and he'd sat watching the building for a while.
Quite a few people were coming and going. They were mostly in their late teens to early twenties, and although there were two flats in the maisonette he doubted they were all visiting the elderly lady on the ground floor.
It was probably drugs. The guys coming and going looked like addicts. Barry wondered if he was getting mixed up in something gang-related. The guy might just be dealing on someone else's patch. Barry wasn't the judge and jury though, he was just the hired gun. He was doing as he was told, not choosing his victim himself. He mentally passed the buck, and thought about which weapon to use. Guns were too loud, even with a silencer. The cops would come running in no time.
Barry settled on a knife. It was sharp, cheap and disposable. The one he was going to use had been a present when he'd moved into his current flat, and it hadn't yet made it out of the box.
Barry put a disposable glove on his right hand and used the newly gloved hand to put the knife inside his jacket. He'd put a wedge of paper inside to line the pocket so the knife wouldn't slip straight through.
When it came time to head out to do the deed, Barry felt self-conscious. It wasn't just the knife either, he felt conspicuous being one of the few white faces in Brixton, walking alone through the rough end of town. His bald spot shone under the streetlamps, practically a beacon for potential muggers.
He made it to the target's property without incident, and rapped smartly on the door with his knuckles. There was no doorbell.
Heavy feet could be heard stomping inside the house, growing progressively louder until the door swung open with a loud creak.
Barry didn't want any prying eyes seeing him carry out the hit, so he had to get inside.
'Hi, my mate said you might help a fella out?' Barry spoke quickly, trying to throw a hint of desperation into his tone, as if he needed a hit.
The man nodded, looked him up and down, before beckoning him in and bounding up the stairs just inside the door.
Barry followed him.
'What can I do ya for?' the man asked.
Barry could have rushed him straight away, but he was a coward and wanted to minimise the chance of the victim defending himself.
'An eighth of Moroccan black.' He didn't know what kind of drug he was asking for but he had heard it in a movie.
'Last of the big spenders, eh?' the big man chuckled and turned around to fish in a drawer. It was now or never, and Barry leapt forward, pulling the gloved hand from his pocket and thrusting the knife towards his victim. The knife cut into his back as if it was butter, sticking there. Barry yanked the knife from its resting place and rammed it back in, again and again in quick succession. On the last thrust he ploughed the blade into the back of the man's neck. Blood was everywhere, and it was clear the man would bleed out.
Barry removed his outer clothing, stripping down to his shorts and vest. He tucked his bloodstained clothes into his rucksack and left Emanuel to die.
***
The night before the funeral, Eleanor's parents arrived in London. Edwin had rashly offered them use of the guestroom, which they had gladly accepted. When they rang the doorbell, Edwin wondered how he would ever look them in the eye, but his guilt disappeared as he took a perverse pleasured in playing nice.
He was finally free. He had his little girl, and she wouldn't be dragged halfway round the world at the whim of her mother. He also owned the house now. It had been in joint names, and the right of survivorship applied. This meant that at the moment of Eleanor's death, he became the sole owner of 51 Belgrave Square. It would be his free and clear soon enough, as the life insurance policy would pay off the remainder of the mortgage.
Edwin wouldn't get the money Eleanor had in her own bank account. Her will meant that money would go into a trust for Chelsea. It was of little consequence to Edwin.
The funeral arrangements had been left to Edwin, as her parents felt it was a husband's duty. He had half considered getting his brother-in-law to assist, but figured it would be easier to do it without Mark turning it into another excuse to hit the booze.
Eleanor hadn't left funeral instructions. Of course she hadn't, she hadn't expected to die anytime soon. He chose an ornate oak casket, not a cheap one. He played every bit the part of the mourning husband. Flowers, bagpipes and the church at which they had got married were soon booked in a flurry of open wallets, the kind Edwin hadn't been able to indulge in for a while.
Before he knew it the funeral was upon them; Eleanor's extended family were soon sitting in contemplative silence in the back of a procession of black town cars.
The funeral had a large number of attendees. It seems murder brings all sorts of acquaintances out of the woodwork. School friends, teachers, even a hairdresser or two. They all turned out to pay their respects to the late Eleanor Murphy.
Edwin thought few remembered her accurately. The eulogies from Eleanor's parents and her best friends were heartwarming, but it was little Chelsea standing up to speak that had every eye in the room damp.
'My Daddy says Mummy has gone to a better place. I know she didn't want to go, because she loves me so much. I don't want her to go either, but I guess God thinks he waited long enough. I know Mummy will be watching over us, and I'll miss her every day, but Daddy says she's gone somewhere no one can hurt her anymore. I love you, Mummy.'
Edwin was the last to deliver his eulogy, and he was frank about the difficulties that there had been in their marriage, and closed with his regrets that he never got the chance to put things right.
***
Cause of death took no time at all to establish. Emanuel Richard bled out after being stabbed multiple times. That much could be established on-site.
The old lady downstairs had rung environmental health when she first smelt the decomposition, and they had in turn called in the police.
As the whole flat was a crime scene it was quickly sealed off, and a deputy posted at the door. Morton was forced to wear a plastic coverall before he could
enter the scene. It covered Morton from head to toes, and prevented him contaminating the crime scene.
'No matter how many times I wear one of these I never get used to it,' he moaned half-heartedly.
The coroner grinned. 'It's like wearing a giant condom.'
Morton flipped a V at the doctor, and gestured at the body.
'What do you think, Doc? Our vic stiff someone on a drug deal?' Crime scene techs had found cocaine, methamphetamine and marijuana stashed inside the downstairs toilet. Robbery didn't appear to be the motive: the man still had his wallet. Morton read aloud from the man's driver’s licence.
'Emanuel Richard. Sounds familiar.' Morton had heard the name before, but he couldn't quite place it. He made a mental note to ask narcotics when he got back to New Scotland Yard.
'Get trace from around the wound. It's not uncommon to get nicked when using a knife to stab someone. Any sign of the knife itself?'
'Nope, nothing. The killer must have taken it with him. Chances are he'd be covered in blood too – there's plenty on the floor, but the contact spray would have at least spattered the attacker as well. Local CCTV might be able to pick something up there.'
CHAPTER 15: PATSY
Anthony Duvall had been a university student when the bust went down, and he took the rap for another's crime.
He was new in Portsmouth, having transferred to the city's university for the final year of his BA in International Relations. His finances weren't in great shape, and the opportunity had seemed like a godsend. It had never crossed his mind that anything dodgy was involved. The man who hired him, Jake, was a doctoral candidate within the School of Social Historical and Literary Studies. He'd seemed like an upstanding guy, and when he said he needed a parcel picked up for a birthday present, nothing had struck Ant as being out of the ordinary. As Ant understood it, Jake was only a few days away from a submissions deadline before his viva voce, and he didn't have time to travel up to Liverpool to pick up the parcel.
Ant wasn't all that busy; his dissertation was mostly done, as he had spent the summer working on it, and it was worth a third of his final year's mark. It seemed odd that the final year only had eight hours a week timetabled, but Ant wasn't complaining.
He'd rearranged his Thursday and Friday seminars to earlier in the week, and Jake gave him first class train tickets up to Liverpool.
Ant's instructions were straightforward enough: meet Diane, the girl who had Jake's present, in the city centre a couple of minutes away from Liverpool Lime Street. Give her the money, get the parcel, bring it back.
As he had Friday off he'd chosen to book into a hotel and come back the next day. There was no point rushing back; he didn't know many people in Portsmouth so he wouldn't be missing out on a social life.
The handover had taken place in his hotel bar. A gorgeous leggy brunette had walked in and introduced herself as Diane.
'Hey, hun, you the guy Jake sent up?' It wasn't a Liverpudlian accent.
Ant nodded.
'You got my money, babe?' she whispered.
Anthony slid over the banker's draft that Jake had given him. He had said it was an antique for his mother's birthday, a rare piece of pottery for her collection. Sure enough the parcel he was given did appear to be pottery, but it didn't look like anything special to him. Then again, who was he to give an opinion on what was and wasn't tasteful? Pottery wasn't his thing.
Anthony didn't bother inspecting the goods. He had already been paid, and he wouldn't know what to look for even if he tried. He therefore missed the false bottom covered with a fresh layer of new clay.
Diane didn't stay long, and Ant was left to wander before returning to his room at the hotel. In the morning he wished he hadn't bothered. A bachelorette party had occurred in the main bar, and stayed on in the hotel late bar. It had been impossible to get a good night's sleep, and the half-cold cooked breakfast hadn't been worth the price of admission either.
At least the return journey gave him time to read through his seminar material for the following week, even if the swinging Pendolino trains did make him feel vaguely nauseous.
It was on his return home that the difficulty began. He tried to find Jake to deliver the goods, but he was nowhere to be found. He had skipped teaching his Global Political Economy class that afternoon, and the blinds were drawn on his Victorian home in Southsea when Ant tried to deliver the goods there.
Reluctantly Ant gave up and took the goods home, intending to bring them to the university on the following Monday. They never made it. At 5 a.m. the next morning the police burst through the front door, smashing it to splinters to get in. The pottery was seized, and Anthony frogmarched to the station. He was barely given time to throw on jeans and a t-shirt before he found himself up before a judge. He tried to protest his innocence, but the jury was having none of it. There was almost £100,000 pounds of heroin sealed inside the base of the pottery.
Anthony was sentenced to four years inside, and served nearly three before being granted parole. The young man sent down that fateful day was not the man who emerged three years later from HM Prison Dorchester. Gone was the youthful exuberance, replaced by a tattooed punk who had spent three hellish years enduring prison food, regular fights with other inmates and worse. The honest and helpful undergraduate soon became a world-weary convict aged beyond his years. He went in young and healthy, but came out psychologically scarred and HIV positive. His life would never be the same again.
***
Morton had to wait to get his CCTV footage. Lambeth Co-Operative Council had to be subpoenaed before they released the footage they had of the area, and Lambeth only had control of part of Brixton's CCTV coverage.
London is plastered with CCTV cameras but they're not linked to one big system, so for every camera, Morton had to ask someone new for the footage.
There was some suggestion from the Mayor's office that the CCTV would eventually be put onto a central system, which would save money and make Morton's job easier, but it hadn't happened yet.
Raeburn Street, the victim's road, wasn't covered by CCTV, but the roads it bisected did, so all those passing through were caught by the council's surveillance at one end or the other. It was a necessary evil in Brixton as crime was rife, especially among the gangs in the area.
Only a few dozen individuals were seen leaving the area after the estimated time of death. That gave a window of around six hours to look through, and that job fell to an unlucky deputy. He found only one suspicious individual, and immediately paged Inspector Morton.
'Sir, we've got one individual who appears to change clothes between entering and exiting the road. He could be a resident but he wasn't among the neighbours we canvassed going door-to-door.'
Morton thought it over for a moment. The killer could be a resident, in which case he should show up on footage from the previous week.
'Run a scan for him on the previous couple of days. If he's a resident it's almost certain he would be coming and going regularly.'
'Already done, sir. Nothing flagged up. It isn't a great angle though, sir. He kept his head down as he passed the CCTV. Looks like he knew there were cameras about.'
'He's white. Not a huge number of white guys that wander alone in Brixton in the evening. Can we trace where he went after he left Raeburn Street?' Morton figured the suspect would slip up and show his face at some point.
'I've got him, sir. We can see him heading south to the A2217. He disappears off CCTV there, in a blind spot between Concanon Road and Trinity Gardens. Traffic might have something though, if anyone got flashed for speeding as he went past?'
'It's a long shot. Worth checking, though. Hang on, freeze on the Concanon/A2217 camera.'
It was angled down above a row of shops, but caught the corner on film neatly.
'Aha! The bag disappeared somewhere between Raebarn Court and the A road. We might just have found the dump spot for our murder weapon. Good work, lads.'
CHAPTER 16: WEAK LINKS
&nb
sp; Although her victim was now dead, Vanhi was still a weak link. If she got caught, Edwin knew she would turn on him in no time if it would save her from a life sentence in jail. While plea bargaining wasn't officially encouraged or sanctioned, it did happen in practice.
The prosecutor in charge would simply reduce the charge to manslaughter; Vanhi would turn Queen's Evidence.
If Edwin could eliminate Vanhi, he could massively reduce his exposure. Her death would end any investigation into Eleanor's death as well as removing the only darknet contact that had enough information to work out who he was.
He couldn't kill her himself, of course. That would be counterproductive. Instead he settled on a new course of action. He would demand two kills from the man who called himself Barry. He wanted his ex-girlfriend and her new lover dead. It was only fair. If Barry wanted two kills, then Edwin wanted two kills. He'd still never follow through, but Barry didn't know that.
'If you want two. I want two. Will advise on who second is if this is acceptable.'
He knew the other man would be fuming when he read it, but he could hardly complain to the police. Without Edwin's identity he couldn't exact his revenge personally either. Worst case scenario, Edwin was no worse off than he was before he sent the message.
***
The bag turned up, but not before the lab techs from Forensics had to climb into a rubbish bin. It seemed the suspect had been smart enough to head south past the A2217 towards the council flats before he dumped the bag in a huge communal bin. There were CCTV cameras on the apartment building, but they were all just for show. The council maintained that the perception of CCTV was just as effective as real CCTV but at five percent of the cost. Unsurprisingly Morton didn't agree.
'Paper-pushing morons. I'd like to see them catch a criminal.' The bin was ripe with food, a testament to the failure of the then-Labour government's biweekly bin collection program. It certainly wouldn't help the lab when it came to particulate analysis, and it could create reasonable defence in the hands of a vaguely competent criminal defence barrister.
Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel) Page 7
