The contents were untouched though, and the clothes inside were soaked in blood. It would almost certainly be just the victim's blood, but there was an off chance that the aggressor nicked himself with the blade and left a little piece of himself behind. Even a partial fingerprint would do; Morton just needed something to go on. He gestured at a deputy. 'Get this bagged, tagged and back to the lab. Now.' He was in no mood for pleasantries.
***
The bag didn't reveal any major surprises. There were no fingerprints anywhere on or inside the bag, which suggested the killer may have worn gloves. The only blood to be found was the victim's, and the clothes were distinctly disposable. They were the generic mass-produced clothes that can be bought in any supermarket.
There was one ray of hope, a small hair trapped underneath the strap on the backpack. It didn't have a follicular tag attached, so DNA was a no-go on this occasion. The hair could be compared manually though, should a sample from a suspect be obtained. It also suggested that the killer had light brown hair. This was compiled with other data from the CCTV to produce an e-fit image of what the man could look like. It was guesswork at best, as there were no direct profiles of his face on CCTV, but by combining the angles it was possible for an educated guess to be made.
He was Caucasian so the ratios on distance between the eyes, the size and breadth of the nose, as well as the jaw line shape, could be predicted with some accuracy. His height and build were visually discernible, and combined with the knowledge of his real hair colour a profile was beginning to take shape.
The e-fit would be flashed around the area, and hopefully someone would have seen him.
***
'Not happy. You should have asked upfront.'
Despite his protests Barry knew that two for two was a fair deal. It wasn't too fair to find it out halfway through the deal, but he had little choice. He wouldn't get what he wanted from the deal if he didn't hold up his end and carry out two hits. The first had been much easier than he thought it would be. He was already in it up to his neck. Two life sentences is still life. Barry had nothing to lose, but a hell of a lot to gain.
He soon capitulated.
***
Once Edwin had convinced Barry to do a second hit, he had to work out who the target was. He had nothing from her except a brief message telling him not to carry out the kill they'd asked for in the vicinity of the Caledonian Road.
Edwin also had the photo of Emanuel, the victim. He clicked on his downloads folder, and brought up the image which showed a photograph being held by hands with painted fingernails. A woman! And in the background – what does that neon sign say?
Edwin brought up an image enhancement program, and clicked 'interpolate', which caused the computer to try and guess at the detail by adding new pixels between the blurry image regions based on the colour change. It wasn't a great picture, but it did reveal two things. The neon sign was for a fish and chip shop across the street. The sign read '"Oh My Cod!"'
Edwin laughed, then brought up Google. Oh My Cod! was halfway along the Caledonian Road. Edwin clicked to bring up a street-view map of the road, and looked at the apartment opposite.
The flat from the webcam picture had to be one floor up, based on the angle of the sign. There were only two flats in that building that were on the first floor, and faced the road. That narrowed it down a bit.
Another trip to the world's most famous search engine brought up Electoral Roll records for the two flats. Only one had a woman living there, Vanhi Deepak, age twenty-seven. Edwin smirked again. It was almost too easy.
He typed out a message to Barry with the details, and then added 'Change your modus operandi. Don't use the knife again. Get it done.'
CHAPTER 17: DATA TRAIL
If he couldn't use a knife again, then a gun was Barry's second choice. But getting a gun in the UK isn't easy. He could legally apply for, and probably get, a Firearm Certificate. They weren't too hard to come by, but the police would want to fingerprint him as well as inspect his gun cabinet to make sure it was up to par. He'd also have to wait a while, and even then if he used it the police would trace it straight back to him.
That left him two options as he saw it, if he wanted to shoot Vanhi. Number one was to buy a lawful gun such as an air rifle and then modify it to fire lethal pellets. It wasn't a bad plan, but it would still leave a wide paper trial for the police to follow.
Behind door number two was the idea of acquiring an illegal gun. Barry thought this was essentially two sub-options, namely getting an otherwise legal gun illegally or getting a completely illegal gun.
The former could be as simple as buying a licensed firearm from someone else, or stealing it. Farmers, ex-military personnel and the police are allowed some weapons. The problem was they would almost certainly ask questions, as well as remember whom they sold the gun to.
The latter option meant finding someone willing to sell a gun, no questions asked, and to conveniently forget where it went should they ever be found. Barry decided this approach was much safer, and started his search by simply asking for one on the same darknet he had made his murder swap deal on.
***
Morton was at a loss on the Brixton stabbing. The victim lived alone, and had no friends or family. He was on narcotics' radar, but his dealing was low-level. He was one of thousands of petty criminals in London, and didn't have anything in his record to suggest anyone would want to kill him. He'd lived in Brixton for five years. Morton knew that much from council records, as the man claimed single person reduction for his council tax. Before that, there was nothing at all to suggest who he was.
It wasn't even the only unsolved murder on Morton's desk. He had overseen dozens of investigations during his career, and this was one of only three times he'd been truly stumped. It was almost as if members of the public were randomly killing each other in elaborate ways without leaving any evidence, and without there being any apparent motive.
The other detectives were starting to talk. Morton knew they couldn't do any better given the evidence on the table, but it didn't quell the rumours he was getting old and would soon be heading for retirement. If he didn't crack at least one of these cases soon then it might be the final bell tolling on his career. It would be an unglamorous way to go out, but he'd have his pension intact, and he'd be secure in the knowledge he did his best for several decades of service. That wouldn't make it any easier to look his colleagues in the eye at the retirement party however, and Morton would sooner forgo his pension than his reputation.
***
It hadn't taken long to get a nibble on the darknet. Barry's instinct had been right. The darknet was a world where anything goes. His seller wasn't strictly in London, but they met in Guilford. The weapon was concealed inside a guitar case, and cost Barry five hundred pounds in cash. Barry had to empty the slush fund under his bed, but that money bought him a double-barrelled sawn-off shotgun. It was old, and could do with a spot of polish, but Barry was sure it would work. It was bound to be loud, but there was no escaping that.
Barry also bought one box of ammo – twenty-four shells – with the gun, for an extra twenty pounds. He probably wouldn't need a whole box, but it wouldn't hurt. He'd ditch both the gun and the ammo in the Thames after the hit. It was twelve-bore ammo, the most common kind, so it wouldn't attract too much attention should it be found, and the ammo wasn't illegal anyway, just the gun.
Barry's second task was to home in on his victim. He knew she lived across from a chip shop, and he found her place easily enough. He loitered in a nearby coffee shop, and tried to keep an eye on her comings and goings, to work out when and where the hit would go down.
***
Morton was beginning to make progress investigating the Brixton stabbing. The victim, Emanuel Richard, was in the system, having been arrested a number of times for rape and sexual assault. None of the charges had stuck, but if the accusations were true, it could explain motive.
The conviction rate in rape
cases was notoriously low, often hinging on a he said, she said case with the defendant claiming that the sex was consensual.
Sometimes witnesses were reluctant to testify for fear of being victimised again on the stand. That was often more than enough to give rise to reasonable doubt, and so Mr Richard walked free each time.
Morton wondered if his death was the result of vigilante justice. It could give him a lead, but could just as easily be a red herring. There were a huge number of victims that might want to see him dead, and Morton suspected that more might exist that never found the strength of conviction to come forward.
The slight hole in the theory was the statistic that over eighty-five percent of violent stabbings were committed by men, and as far as Morton knew, Emanuel Richard did not swing that way. It was possible of course, but considering the number of victims it was unlikely.
'Men often hide it out of shame. They don't want to be seen as the victim of rape.' Morton's colleague, Linda had read his mind. She was often the voice of reason in the squad room despite her relative youth. She was, at forty, an experienced detective but Morton considered her a relative newcomer nonetheless. He was demanding that way.
'I agree, but it's more likely that a brother or father of a victim would carry out a vigilante hit. We've got an e-fit, so let's see if it matches up with anyone connected to the known victims.'
***
The south end of the Caledonian Road was attracted a reasonable amount of foot traffic. Barry couldn't simply loiter, or he would be noticed. There wasn't a convenient cafe to sit in and watch the property, so Barry was forced to improvise. Across the street, above and to the right of the chip shop, was the Regal Fitness Centre and Gym. On the fourth floor a number of treadmills gave a clean view across the street towards his target's apartment building. The front door was off to the side, with an alleyway leading towards the bins at the rear of the property, and Caledonian Road at the front. Barry decided to take out membership at the gym and use it as an opportunity to spy on the property and its occupant.
When he entered the gym he realised that there was a remote chance that a paper trail could come back to bite him. Barry bought a gift certificate for one month's membership, waited until the girl who sold him it went off shift, and redeemed it himself under an alias. That way he neatly avoided needing to sign up to a minimum twelve-month contract, and without his real name it would be difficult to track him via the gym.
***
The relatives hadn't turned up anything. No one admitted to knowing the suspect from the e-fit, and none of the relatives the uniforms saw when interviewing the rape victims met the description. It could be the work of a phenomenal poker face in play, but it seemed that the vigilante angle was a dead end.
A broad canvass of the streets had turned up a witness, but he might be unreliable. When the canvassing officer, Bertram Ayala, met him, the witness reeked of marijuana.
Normally Ayala would have him straight in for possession, but if he could be a lead in the stabbing case then the greater good demanded that Ayala stay his handcuffs – this time.
Ayala paged Morton, who drove straight down to Brixton to interview the potential witness in person. He had with him six e-fits, of which only one was the e-fit of the killer. Morton needed to know whether or not the witness was reliable. He might be called upon to testify, and as a traditional line-up was not possible without the suspect in custody, Morton chose to proceed with an e-fit line-up.
He needn't have worried. The young man identified the correct e-fit at once.
'That's him, blud. Skinny li'l white dude. Big blue eyes. He legged it, like he was in a hurry.'
'Which way did he go?'
'He stopped at the bus stop, didn't he? Heading north towards Liverpool Street.'
All London buses had CCTV installed, so if this was true the man could be tracked further, which might help to ID him.
'You remember anything else?'
'Naw. You gonna spare me an Adam Smith?'
It was a reference to the twenty note printed with the likeness of the famous Scottish economist. Morton was impressed the young man knew who he was. He decided that it was a small price to pay to catch a killer.
'Here. I'll throw in a tip for free. Ditch the weed.'
CHAPTER 18: DÉJÀ DEATH
The second kill wasn't as easy as the first, and Barry was becoming desperate. The target didn't have any discernible pattern to her movements, and each time he tried to follow her by leaving the gym he had to get his bag from the locker before he could pursue her. By then she was long gone. Clearly the gym-based surveillance wasn't the smartest idea Barry had ever had.
He debated simply knocking on the door and shooting her, but the sound would resonate in the alleyway, and it would be impossible to get away unseen. It was also far too similar to his first hit, and that would get him caught.
He eventually decided to follow her, no gun, and make small talk in the laundrette she used down the street. He needed to get her somewhere quiet before he could take her out, so his aim was to set up a meeting at another time when it would be easier to conceal the gun.
The target seemed pleasant enough, and Barry wondered again what she had done to deserve death. She was shy and retiring, and was slow to come out of her shell. Barry needed an opening to get her talking, and then he could find out where she went when she left the house.
Eventually, he feigned a lack of soap and asked to borrow a cup. She nodded, and gestured at the powder sitting on top of the machine that would be hers for the next hour.
It wasn't much of an opener, and Barry resorted to asking her about the film magazine she was reading half an hour later.
'I don't know why everyone likes that movie,' he ventured when he saw a slight frown on her face while reading.
'I know! It's so predictable. The killer is obvious in the first five minutes.'
'The book was way better anyway. I hate being told what characters look like after I've built them up in my imagination.'
'Me too.' She became animated, and Barry knew he was in.
'I'm Larry,' Barry said, extending his hand. Lying under pressure was not one of his strong points.
'Vanhi.'
'I just moved into the area. Care to show me around?' Barry winked in what he hoped was a salacious manner.
'Err. Sorry, I'm busy.' Vanhi turned away, picking the magazine back up to shield herself from the awkwardness of the conversation.
Strikeout. Barry had overdone it, and he would have to try again another time.
***
Barry tried the laundrette again the following week. Same time of day, same day of the week, and there she was sitting doing her laundry like clockwork.
He needed to play it cool. She hadn't responded to his sexual advances, and he knew he'd need to try a more platonic approach to get her to open up.
'Remembered my soap powder this time.' Barry indicated his box as he took a seat nearby and flicked open a magazine.
When she didn't respond Barry decided to give her a few moments. If he pushed too hard, she would clam up and he'd never get anything out of her.
'You got change for a five? Seems the machine doesn't like my pound coin.' It was plausible. He had seen a television show on Channel Four once that said almost a quarter of all pound coins in London were counterfeit.
'Sure. Here you go.' There was the hint of a smile as she passed him the coins. He hoped it was amusement at his misfortune – he could work with that.
He feigned trying another coin.
'Damn it! This one doesn't work either.'
Vanhi began to giggle. The poor man was having no luck that evening.
'Not your night, is it?'
'Naw, nothing's gone right for me since I moved to London.'
'Where you from then?'
'Kent.'
'Nice part of the country.'
'Yeah, and much easier to find my way around. With mostly fields around, the houses stick out more,'
Barry joked.
'Well, if you're still having trouble finding your feet, I can show you the sights, such as they are.'
'Really? That would be awesome, though knowing my luck, I'd probably get mugged.' Barry decided to play up the hapless loser; that persona would lower her defences and get her talking.
'Ha-ha, I promise not to mug you. You ever been to the One Eyed Dog?'
'Nope. Pub?'
'Yup. I work there.'
With that, Barry knew where she would die. He would get to know her shift pattern, and shoot her at closing. The only witnesses would be too drunk to remember a thing.
***
Morton's witness was right. The suspect who ditched the bag did board the 133 bus. CCTV showed that he boarded the bus at the Brixton Road stop, then rode all the way to Liverpool Street Station before heading for the underground. From there, he took a train north. Morton had ordered Ayala to follow the suspect on the CCTV footage at subsequent stations. Once Ayala had the suspect's home location down, Morton would take the e-fit out and show it around. Hopefully it would get a hit.
***
Vanhi worked most nights, but only Tuesday was really quiet enough for Barry to take his shot. He would be seen, that much was guaranteed. Barry had slowly become a regular late-night drinker in the area, and he would keep up that pretence after the kill to avoid arousing suspicion.
The gun was secured inside his overcoat. It was the thick padded kind, as only that could conceal the lumps and bumps of the shotgun. At least the weather was cold, so it didn't look out of place. The cold was also a great excuse for wearing gloves. It made the gun cumbersome, and Barry would have to ditch them after pulling the trigger as they would be covered in gunshot residue, a dead giveaway if the police pulled him for being in the area; but it avoided Barry's risking exposure by fingerprint.
At closing time on Tuesday night, two 'clock in the morning, Barry leant against the wall in the alley adjacent to the pub.
Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel) Page 8
