***
The entry point was well lit, but relatively sheltered. It was near the popular running routes for the area as well as the tourist centre, but the start of the Thames Path was sheltered behind industrial-use land. It received some foot traffic, but not at the time the body was estimated to enter the water.
Rosenburg was on scene for only a moment before a deputy called out.
'Over there! Look.' The deputy waved his hand upwards.
Above the point of origin of the path was a CCTV camera. It was aimed at the entrance to the pier below and to the side, but it appeared to be wide-angle, which meant it might have caught something.
'The wires go down to the Barrier Control Building,' another deputy chipped in.
The building was the home of the major controls for raising and lowering the barrier. It was used to study changes in the waterway to prevent the flooding that had devastated London several times before the construction of the barrier.
Rosenburg hated formalities. He should go to the Crown Prosecution Service and get a warrant. It was private CCTV and he couldn't compel the owner to hand over any footage. Blustering had worked in the past, so he walked straight into the building and thrust his badge at the poor girl on the desk.
The colour drained from her face. She was clearly feeling guilty about something.
'I didn't mean to. It just sort of slipped in.'
Rosenburg frowned. He had no idea what she was referring to, but he wasn't going to overlook a chance to get her to hand over the CCTV.
'We might be able to overlook that.' He smiled confidently.
'Really?'
'If you can get me the CCTV for that,' he pointed out the window at the camera in question, 'in the next ten minutes, I'll forget all about it.'
She bolted from her desk in a flurry of guilt. Gary, the CCTV guy, worked in the back monitoring the feed, and he was sweet on her.
'Hey, doll, come to ask me out to lunch?' It was a long-standing joke between them. Gary was decades older and a widower.
'Naw. I need a favour.' She smiled coyly.
'Anything for you.'
'I need some CCTV tapes.'
'Except that.'
'Aww, why not?' she fluttered her eyelids.
'Company policy. What do you want them for anyway?' Gary raised an eyebrow.
'There's a copper in reception. He wants 'em, don't he?'
'Well, send him in. If he's got a badge, I'll sort him out.'
***
After the tenth phone call pleading with him to go on television and appeal for information, Edwin agreed. He also offered to stump up a modest reward. He never expected to pay up, but it gave him a veneer of respectability. Once he said yes the Met moved startlingly quickly. Barely a day later Edwin found himself in a drab conference room on the second floor of New Scotland Yard. A solitary window offered a view over Dacre Street, but Edwin couldn't have taken the time to stop and stare if he had wanted to. The room was full of journalists. The BBC, Sky News, The Times, as well as international names such as Reuters were all represented. A few independents filled out the rest of the seats, with everyone else left to stand at the back of the room behind them.
Eleanor's murder had been big news. She was white, middle class, a lawyer, and lived in Belgravia. The tabloids had already run features with headlines like "Murder in Paradise". None had printed anything negative about Edwin, but that was only because they didn't want to fall foul of the Press Complaints Commission.
A deputy had prepped him before he walked out to the waiting carnivores. A dozen cameras flashed as he made his way to the lectern facing the journalists.
Edwin cleared his throat, took a sip of the provided water and began. He knew these people. They were, until his recent departure, his people. He was brief, but managed to moisten the eye of every journalist present. Some of them had even met Eleanor at various industry functions. Edwin may have been acting, but none of them noticed. He was preaching to the choir.
***
They kept CCTV on site for only 24 hours. After that it was backed up to a central server for a further 28 days by an outside contractor. Gary couldn't supply Rosenburg with what he wanted.
The contractor was wary of liability should they hand over the footage, and wanted a court order.
Rosenburg hated it, but he had to go cap in hand to the prosecutor assigned to the case, a young shyster called Kiaran O'Connor.
'I need CCTV from a private firm for a murder investigation.' It came through gritted death. Rosenburg and lawyers did not generally mix.
'Ya gotta give me more ta go on tan that.' Kiaran typically dropped his accent when dealing with the police, but he knew Rosenburg hated it, and enjoyed making him uncomfortable. It was one of the few perks of being a criminal lawyer.
'A body was dumped in the Thames near the barrier. Private CCTV on a dock there has a wide-angle lens that covers the dump site. The CCTV is processed locally, and the local centre was cooperative, but CCTV is archived off site. We need access to the archives.'
'That's better. Why couldn't you have said that in the first place?' he teased. 'Consider it done.'
***
The CCTV was clear-cut. A man was shown loitering against the barrier when the victim came down the hill. He spoke to the victim, but without audio Rosenburg had no idea what they discussed.
As the distance between them closed the victim raised his left arm, with something metallic visible in his hand, at which point the first man flipped him over his shoulder and past the barrier.
If Morton had still been on the case he would have recognised the man in a heartbeat, but Rosenburg had failed to dedicate much time to any of his adopted cases. He had given each a cursory read, but without having looked at the primary evidence himself he was flying blind.
Rosenburg was therefore highly curious about the identity of both parties, and what was said between them before the incident. It was clearly self-defence, and thus it was not a job for Charles Rosenburg, but the police would still need to identify the victim. As far as homicide was concerned, it was case closed.
***
Once the case had been deemed self-defence, uniforms were drafted in to trace the victim's identity so that the family could be informed. It was a fairly simple affair in the end. CCTV in the area was used in conjunction with facial recognition to check public transport. The man had clearly arrived on foot, and so the logical point to disembark for the barrier was the local train station, or the tube.
The man was large and distinctive, and was easily spotted on CCTV. He had disembarked at Woolwich Arsenal tube, and the Oyster card he had swiped was registered to a Peter Kevin Sugden-Jones. His home address was listed, as was his email and other contact details.
It would now be down to the local police station to inform the next of kin.
CHAPTER 29: BY SELF-DEFENCE
The tension in the small drawing room could have been cut with a knife. Mrs Sugden sat with her sister, desperate to know where her husband was. Though there was no love lost between Mr Sugden and his sister-in-law, she would be the first to admit that he was reliable. For Mrs Sugden he had always been her rock. Steady, dependable and usually honest, it was not like him to lie about a business meeting and disappear for days on end.
The sisters had devoured enough tea to last a lifetime, and the conversation had been rehashed many times. There was nothing more to be said, so the sisters sat in silence.
Mrs Sugden didn't know how long she had been sat there when the doorbell shrieked out in the silence. It was a nasty piercing doorbell, but anything softer could never be heard in the back of the house. She looked up, an ashen expression on her face.
'Don't worry, I'll get it,' her sister said as she rose.
WPC Hayley Lancaster introduced herself at the door, and asked simply to come in. Her hat had been removed, and was dangling limply at her side. Her gait was slow and steady, signposting the bad news she was about to deliver.
&nb
sp; 'Mrs Sugden.' Hayley took the seat opposing her before continuing. 'I'm sorry to inform you that your husband has died.'
Hayley knew that there was no concern regarding criminal liability, and that made the delivery of the news much easier. She was used to delivering news to persons who might have some connection with the death. With suspicion clouding her judgement, it was often hard to be sufficiently empathetic.
The news clearly came as a shock. Mrs Sugden just sat there, silent. A tear rolled down her cheek.
It was her sister who broke the silence.
'How did Peter die?'
Hayley paused. It was an odd situation. She had dealt with murder victims, accidental deaths and even cot deaths in the past. Death by self-defence was not in her repertoire of expertise.
'He drowned in the River Thames. I'm ever so sorry.' It was the truth. The widow didn't need to know the specifics of how he ended up in the river.
As Mrs Sugden sobbed, her sister brought in a tray of tea.
Hayley nodded appreciatively before asking if there was anyone she could call.
'I'm all she's got left,' her sister interjected. Her diction betrayed her upbringing. While Mr Sugden was as blueblood as they come, his in-laws were, at best, nouveau riche.
Standard procedure was to never leave the widow alone, but she was well cared for by her sister, and didn't seem to need any additional support. She would need to formally ID the body at some point, but that could wait for another day. She clearly wasn't up to it that day.
***
A plate zinged through the air, missing David by millimetres. He ducked through the doorway, and retreated into the den.
He and Sarah rarely argued, but when they did it was as if a volcano had erupted. Months of petty squabbles and disagreements were regurgitated in a fit of unrepentant rage.
She never forgot a thing either. Insults, snide comments and sarcasm that had long vacated his memory came back to haunt him in quick succession.
The evening had begun normally enough. He had come home from work a little after five. Now that he was on desk duty his hours were far more regular, and they had slipped back into the habit of sharing dinner around six o'clock.
It was work that transformed a pleasant dinner into the slanging match from hell. David had been offered early retirement in light of his years of service. It would reduce his pension somewhat, but the house was already paid for so the Mortons were on fairly good financial footing.
Sarah wanted him to take it. The force had always been the third person in their marriage, beckoning him away in the dead of night and consuming his thoughts even when he was home. David had been a career man for a long time, and Sarah wanted her husband back.
It was an impasse, and the yelling soon kicked off.
'I will not stay at home and watch television when there are criminals to catch!' David boldly declared.
'You can't right every wrong, but you can start by spending some time with me.'
'I do spend time with you! I need to get back on active duty. I'm a policeman, it's who I am.'
***
The second gold-embossed note fell through the letterbox on the day the neighbourhood found out about Mr Sugden's death.
'Dear Mrs Sugden,
My wife and I were truly sorry to hear of the loss of your husband in such tragic circumstances. Please allow us to extend our deepest sympathies to you and your family at this difficult time. I know you have many friends in the area to find solace in, but if we can support you in any way please do not hesitate to ask. We're here to help make things a little easier for you, if that is at all possible.
Our warmest thoughts and most sincere condolences,
Qadi Qumas'
Mrs Sugden's eyes welled with tears as she read such heartfelt words from a family whom her husband had shown nothing but scorn.
CHAPTER 30: NO LUCK
Edwin's plan to eliminate Barry and remove himself one step further from the original kill had backfired spectacularly.
The death of Peter K Sugden had been big news for the last few days, and Edwin was sweating it badly. Rather than closing a loose end he'd opened a whole new can of worms. If the police became suspicious, the whole plan could unravel faster than Edwin could fathom. He wondered if he'd ever be free of the mess that he had created.
As well as being a killer on the run, Edwin now had the curiosity of the press piqued. They wanted to know why Sugden would attack an apparent stranger, and who the stranger was. If either issue was investigated thoroughly then Edwin could be exposed. Finding Barry would give the game away. He'd already panicked once, and if his neck was on the line he'd give up his online contact if he thought it would help. Through Barry's first victim, Vanhi, he could then be tied to Eleanor.
If the press hounded the Sugden widow they might find out he was plotting online, and that would lead just as quickly back to Edwin. It seemed to Edwin that at this point in time all roads led back to him.
He needed Barry taken out, and he needed him gone. Soon.
***
It was half five when the deputy, WPC Stevenson, arrived to pick him up.
'Morning, sir. Nice flat.' Stevenson's comment implied a question as to how a policeman, even a detective inspector, could afford such a nice duplex.
'G' mornin',' Rosenburg replied drowsily. The overtime was killing him. He had been jacked up on coffee for a week straight, and was beginning to crash.
'We've got a witness in the Eleanor Murphy death. Called the toll-free number last night in a fit of guilt. He won't give a name, sir, but dispatch thinks it's genuine.'
'Get him to come in.' Rosenburg knew immediately after saying it that it wouldn't be that easy, or she'd already have done so.
'He said he'll only meet a detective personally. Won't come near the station.'
'I don't do home visits, Stevenson.'
'You might want to make an exception for this one, sir.'
'Why is that?' Rosenburg ducked into the squad car, his broad frame brushing the ceiling as he sat, legs crushed in the foot well.
'He lives in the park, sir.'
'Our star witness is a tramp? Kiaran O'Connor will love that.' Rosenburg wasn't above massaging evidence and coaching a witness, but even he couldn't work with just the word of a tramp to go on.
'Will you at least talk to him, sir?'
'Fine. Drive slowly; I need a nap on the way there.' With that he turned away from his deputy, leant on the window and closed his eyes.
***
'Shit,' Morton yelped in pain. A few other officers looked over, at first in concern but then to giggle profusely. The great David Morton, thirty-year veteran of the Met and stabbing victim, had stubbed his toe doing desk work.
'Great, the entire department will know it by lunchtime. Bloody Facebook. Can't keep anything quiet anymore,' he muttered to no one in particular.
A secretary was already opening up the dreaded social media site. At least no one had caught it on camera. At the policeman's ball the previous Christmas a number of events had been caught on camera phones, and the embarrassment caused when a few had found their way onto YouTube led to a department-wide edict banning them from the office. Despite its being against policy nearly everyone still had one. Even Morton had an iPhone tucked inside his breast pocket, although it rarely saw much action. In truth he didn't really know how to use it, but he wouldn't let Sarah know that, as she had bought it for him on their last anniversary. It had seemed like an insanely generous gift at the time but he was the one the bill for it went to, so it wasn't quite a freebie.
The one up side was the number of games on it. Now Morton was spending his days deskbound there really wasn't much work to do. He was a slow typist, preferring the one index finger at a time method over the touch typing required of those in the secretarial pool, and he wasn't really earning his wages anymore. He was desperate to get back to active duty, but the Superintendent had flat-out refused to review his case for at least a month after the
injury. Thirteen days down, eighteen more to go, he thought as he scanned BBC News for something juicy to read.
***
Chelsea was at a friend's house for a sleepover, and Edwin had the house to himself. He found it a genuine pleasure being able to bask in the silence without having to worry about the school run or any other interruptions.
It gave Edwin a chance to think, to put things in perspective, and to plot his next move.
Clearly Barry was capable. An amateur had died attempting to take him out, and the police hadn't managed to catch him. A professional was needed, but Edwin couldn't simply pay for him to be eliminated. There had to be another way of getting it done properly, without leaving more loose ends to grate on Edwin's frayed nerves.
The obvious solution was to simply pay the man who had responded to his first darknet message. Now that he was back in the house he could liquidise cash assets without being noticed so easily. Some of the furniture was antique, and would certainly sell for a pretty penny. It would leave a paper trail, but feigning being broke was not difficult when one was out of work. There were a few niggles with that plan. Edwin didn't want to pay. It was a pleasant change to be back living in West London luxury, complete with all the trappings. To sell the family jewels off would diminish his victory over Eleanor.
Secondly, some of it was probably technically in probate. He had been married to a lawyer long enough to know that the furniture didn't simply come with the house, but had been her personal possessions. Selling them could even amount to theft from the estate. At best, if it was discovered by the judge dealing with probate, or the executor of her estate (a friend of Eleanor's from law school that Edwin had never been fond of) then he would be ordered to repay the sale proceeds to the estate, which he couldn't do if he had spent them.
Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel) Page 12
