Finally, while it closed one loose end it opened another, and Edwin was a perfectionist. He wanted a neat end to the whole sorry saga, and the closure that would go with that. If he could finish off by tying up every loose end he could start to sleep well at night, safe in the knowledge the police would never darken his door again.
***
The solution was staring Edwin in the face. A professional would be an ideal get-out-of-jail-free. They would be sure to finish the job cleanly, unlike another amateur who would leave the web open for the police to investigate. If Barry were to disappear without a trace, Edwin would be safe, and while he couldn't pay for one himself, there was no reason he couldn't extort someone else into paying. He had a number of darknet contacts still to try, and hopefully at least one of them would agree to a transaction involving cold hard cash.
***
The cash Barry had stolen was running out. He'd managed to steal food a few times, but his reserves were fast evaporating. Including the stash from the old woman's apartment, he'd started out with a little over £700. In London, that didn't go far. Barry considered ditching on the last B&B without paying, but they knew what he looked like, and the last thing he needed was another police report.
Bill paid, Barry left with less than £200. He needed to get out of London. He could go virtually anywhere, and the choice was so wide it was almost paralysing. Scotland would give him a huge area in which to hide, but a stranger in a small town would garner attention. Likewise, Wales was discounted. His fake accent would never fool a local.
Barry really needed to leave the country. He spoke fluent French, as his mother had taught him as a small boy and helped him hone his skills with a summer-long sojourn to southern France every year during school. Flying was out of the question. There was no way he could get by without a passport there. The Eurostar might work, but the best bet was to try and take a ferry. Customs and Excise at ports were much more concerned with keeping foreigners out than keeping people in. A foot passenger could board at Dover, Portsmouth or Southampton and be in France in less than five hours. Barry still had family in France, and they wouldn't ever have thought him a criminal. None of them spoke much English, so unless the police involved Interpol he could simply disappear.
Dover was the busiest route, but customs had always been quite heavy there. Southampton would involve going via Portsmouth anyway, so it would be quickest to go direct. The train to get to the port would take around £30 of his remaining funds, and the ferry would be another £27.50.
Barry was amused that the relatively short train journey would cost more than an international ferry, but now was not the time to comment on the extortionate price of rail travel in the UK. All in, Barry would arrive in France with £140. With the euro stronger than the pound, he'd need to be frugal when he got there, but it was certainly doable. He'd travel down to Portsmouth in the morning.
***
Edwin's plan had received some responses. They were a mixed bunch. A couple flat-out said no to paying for a hit. One offered to pay after the hit, which was a possibility if Edwin could borrow the money temporarily, but it wasn't ideal. A final contact had appeared more interested.
'Possible, how much?' the message had asked.
Edwin replied quickly, quoting the £50,000 he had first received.
'LOL' came the reply. Edwin was ready to give up when the contact messaged him again.
'Can't do £50k. How about part cash part swap?'
The man clearly thought Edwin's first post had not been fulfilled. It wouldn't work of course; Edwin couldn't kill someone without exposing himself to too much risk. The money would be helpful, but it would simply complicate the paper trail.
***
They found the witness where he had promised, sleeping under a bench in Battersea Park near the toilets. Rosenburg kicked him none too gently.
'Wake up.'
'Five more minutes,' the homeless man mumbled.
He was used to be abused and moved along. In London it was a crime to be a vagrant. The law saying so was 180 years old, and as vague as Parliament had ever been, but it was still on the statute books, so homeless people like Frank got kicked to the kerb every day. It didn't help that a number of beggars weren't really homeless, and it stopped those genuinely in trouble getting the help they needed.
'Get up you, worthless shit.' Rosenburg pulled his leg back to kick him again.
Slowly, Frank rolled over and sat up. He was shivering badly. WPC Stevenson leant forward towards him.
'Coffee?' she smiled.
Frank returned a toothy grin. It was rare for him to receive a kindness. One Christmas a lady had helped him into a shelter, but it had closed in the New Year, with the rich feeling they had done their bit by housing him for a couple of weeks. He'd even had a job interview lined up when he was last cast out onto the streets. Ever since he'd been living on soup and curry handed to him by charity workers. It rarely tasted good, and his weight was a slim fraction of what it had been before the streets.
'You rang us. Start talking,' Rosenburg demanded.
Frank glared at him. He didn't like this one. He turned back towards the kind one with the coffee.
'I saw someone. Every day that week that lady died. She stole my bench, kept her bag spread across it like, so I couldn't even share it. Never so much as glanced at me proper.'
'Did you see her kill the woman?' WPC Stevenson asked
'Naw, she was looking mighty shifty though.'
'This is getting us nowhere!' Rosenburg was tired, and he had no patience after several double shifts had left him sleep-deprived.
'What did you see?' the WPC continued, ignoring her supervisor's temper tantrum.
'She sit in same place all week, and she was there ever' day. Never saw her before or since, and I've been here for months.' Frank tried to explain, but he was less than eloquent. He hadn't had a conversation this long since the shelter.
'What'd she look like?'
'Pretty lady. Asian. 'Bout your height I guess.' Frank had been drinking to numb the cold, and his recollection wasn't perfect.
'Anything else?'
'She had a mobile, and did her make-up.'
'Thanks.' Stevenson tossed him a pre-packed sandwich.
Frank grabbed at it greedily, tearing the packaging and discarding it to the floor as he stuffed the whole sandwich in his mouth. He hadn't eaten in almost a day.
''Fanks,' he said with a mouthful of BLT.
***
'Single to Portsmouth pl,ease.' It had taken less than ten minutes to get through the queue at Waterloo.
'Got a railcard?'
Barry dithered. He did have a railcard, but it had his name on it, as well as an old photo. Would it give him away? Before he had a chance to reply the man had printed his ticket.
'£31.80 please.' Barry shook his head, and gingerly handed over two twenties.
Ninety seconds later he was stood under the big clock staring glumly up at the big screens with the departure times. The 10.31 to Portsmouth Harbour didn't have a platform number yet, but Barry still had a quarter of an hour to wait. He grabbed a copy of the Metro, and leant against a sign to read while he waited.
By the time he'd read a story about himself (thankfully without a picture!) the board had refreshed and platform 14 was glowing luminescent on the board above him.
***
David knew he had to apologise. He didn't really think he was in the wrong, and he wouldn't give up on getting back on active duty, but he was going to apologise to Sarah.
She was out at her mother's for a day, and wouldn't be back until around seven. She hated to leave during rush hour, so David knew he had plenty of time to make good his apology.
He took a day off from his accrued time off in lieu, and began to clean the house. He usually hated doing it, but somehow the action was cathartic. It certainly beat data-entry work all day. Once the house was sparkling he made a trip out to Sainsbury's. Flowers and fine food were the order o
f the day.
It had to be orchids of course. They had always been his signature flowers at university, though Sarah never knew that. She thought he bought them because they were her favourite colour, purple. He wasn't going to disabuse her of that notion. With the flowers sorted, he picked up a couple of decent wines and sea bass. David couldn't cook much, but those recipes he could cook he had practised to excess. Tonight would be Szechuan sea bass with sautéed potatoes and a starter of edamame.
The edamame was easy enough. Boiled, tossed in sea salt and chilli flakes and served, it looked like hard work but was the essence of simplicity.
The sea bass was a bit harder. It was easy to overcook, and balancing the flavours took real effort. David started with deboning the fish, and removing the guts. Sarah would have cheated and bought fillets, but it was far more manly a task if done properly, and not one for the squeamish. Once that was done he chopped onions, chillies, lemongrass, ginger and garlic for later. He'd deep-fry it while she ate the starter and grabbed a glass of pinot grigio.
A few rose petals scattered about the kitchen leading up to the bedroom finished off his preparation. He was nothing if not an old-fashioned romantic, and wanted to take full advantage of being well rested after desk duty.
CHAPTER 31: SUNRISE
Edwin's brother-in-law turned up at five o'clock the next morning, banging on the doors. Edwin was not amused. He could catch up on the sleep; he had all day to do that. The problem was that the neighbours might hear. It was unseemly to have night-time visitors in Belgrave Square, especially ones who bang doors loudly at such an ungodly hour.
Edwin was tempted to tell him to get lost. He wasn't his brother after all, but he had been there for Edwin when he'd lost his job, and could be relied upon for babysitting services occasionally.
Knowing he might regret it, Edwin unbolted the French doors, and allowed him in. Mark had always been a pest, for as long as Edwin had known Eleanor. He was unreliable, lazy and had an addictive personality, but somehow he was still a loveable rogue. His partying ways made Edwin feel young again, and he always invited Edwin on nights out. Many a bottle had disappeared in an orgy of drink-induced partying, and he had always managed to get Edwin home no matter how drunk he personally was.
This time, it was he who needed help. He was in withdrawal. Mark had been clean, on and off, for a long time. He'd probably been addicted to every substance known to man at some point or another. Drink, drugs, even certain foods. Mark had many demons, but the current one was heroin, and if he didn't get help soon it would kill him.
'I'm ill, man,' he moaned, throwing himself onto the leather divan in the drawing room.
'Couldn't it have waited till sunrise?' Edwin was always grumpy before his morning coffee.
'I'm on the brink, I need help. Now.' It was a plea Edwin had heard a few times before, when he and Eleanor had helped put Mark into rehab.
'What do you want from me?' Edwin felt a pang of conscience. He had killed the man's sister, so it was unreasonable for him to be angry at the early intrusion.
'Help me get back into the Sunrise Centre.'
The Sunrise Centre was a secure lockdown facility. Inmates could leave at any time, but if they did they were not permitted to come back. They were reduced to a regime of exercise and a balanced diet, with group counselling every day. Mark had been there once before, and had walked out after two weeks, straight back into the welcoming arms of his dealer.
It would be difficult to get him back into the program, but Edwin knew a donation to the centre's work would open doors. The Sunrise Centre didn't charge, but it still needed to get funding from somewhere, and the government stipend was notoriously stingy.
'I can try. No guarantees,' Edwin offered, letting guilt get the better of him for the first time in months.
'Make the call, Ed. I need to get off the skag, otherwise it's going to kill me.' He was already shaking, visibly suffering from the withdrawal.
'Fine, but I can't call for a few hours. Want some breakfast?' Edwin knew he couldn't risk going back to bed until he had seen Mark safely into the hands of professionals who could deal with him.
'Bacon and eggs, fried bread, hash browns and beans please.' Withdrawal always gave Mark the munchies.
Edwin rolled his eyes, and headed for the Aga.
***
It was a logical solution, if he could persuade both parties to go along with it.
Edwin decided to communicate again with the earlier assassin – the first to answer his darknet messages – and offer a part-exchange deal. Edwin, or rather Edwin's latest contact, would do one kill for the assassin and pay him a cash surplus.
This would give Edwin two benefits. Firstly, he would be massively distanced from the kill he was paid to do, and secondly he would get the extra money.
Edwin knew his contact would pay up. He had as good as said as much. If he could now persuade the assassin then the whole plan could proceed without Edwin's being involved.
The assassin would then track down and eliminate Barry, closing the largest loophole. His contact would then complete the assassin's kill, and then Edwin would stiff his contact. The contact would then have knowledge only of the assassin, and be nothing to do with Edwin.
He typed out a message to the assassin.
'Interested in a swap? We do your kill, and you do ours.' Edwin figured he would only mention the cash if he had to.
CHAPTER 32: THE FRENCHMAN
The assassin was a Frenchman who went simply by Pierre, although that was not his real name. He was a professional, though you couldn't tell it just by looking at him. He was plain, even bland-looking, the sort of man you look at and then forget in an instant. He was of medium build, around five foot ten, and had no features that really stuck out. It was his job to be a nobody, to be passed on the street but forgotten in a second. His entire being was consumed with pretending. He monitored his clothes, his gait, his mannerisms and his accent religiously to ensure that he stayed in the persona he had assumed. Contrary to popular belief he was not a seasoned criminal, a hard man or any of the other stereotypes his enemies thought of when they imagined him. He was meek, unassuming and dedicated to getting the job done.
With a talent for accents he could pass for any one of a dozen nationalities, and regularly did so. He had a habit of travelling in and out of countries on different passports. It was illegal of course, in most countries at least, but he did it anyway. He had been in the military when he was younger, but had been thought dead in action. It didn't take him long to realise the benefits of no longer officially existing, and his fame and fortune soon began to wax.
The message he had received was intriguing, but he knew he could get extra out of this contact. He'd already enquired about a paid hit once.
'Sounds interesting. What's in it for me?'
The messages went back and forth for a while before a deal was agreed. The assassin would go second, and on completion would be paid £5,000 cash in unmarked bills.
As it wasn't Edwin's money, he agreed.
***
Zach's condition kept on deteriorating. It would be cruel to delay it, and Yosef knew he wouldn't be able to bring himself to do it.
£5,000 seemed like a low price to pay to end his son's suffering. He had spent six of the last eight months in hospital, and that ratio was likely to increase in the future. He spent his days tanked up on a morphine drip, breathing through a respirator. He could only hear the loudest of sounds, and his sight was restricted to seeing whether the room was light or dark. It was no way to live. Yosef couldn't allow his son to suffer any longer.
'Deal, if you go first.'
***
The next cheap ferry wouldn't be for another few days, so Barry decided to lurk near the port. Portsmouth was much cheaper than London, and his remaining money stretched more easily. A B&B was costing him fifteen pounds a night. It was a bit downmarket, but he only needed somewhere to lay down his head.
The crowds along the
seafront allowed him to hide effectively. No one was ever suspicious of a tourist wandering along the seafront, and there was enough seafront that he never needed to walk the same stretch twice.
His diet consisted of chips, chips and more chips. Portsmouth didn't have a huge culinary repertoire. The seafront was scattered with fish and chip shops, and at not much over a pound a bag they were hot, filling and didn't stretch the budget. There were plenty of pubs but Barry couldn't afford to avail himself of their services no matter how nice a crisp cold beer would taste in the sunshine.
He did let himself enjoy an ice cream while sitting on a pier, but it was really only an excuse to loiter without arousing suspicion. Hopefully he'd still have over a hundred pounds by the time his ferry came around.
***
Both contacts wanted the other to go first, and neither was willing to budge.
Edwin was at a loss. If neither compromised then the plan would fall to pieces. The professional would never compromise, and Edwin's other contact was just as adamant. With such a large sum of money involved he was prone to be stubborn. Ideally, one of them would have compromised and agreed to go first; that would have allowed Edwin to close any link to him without any further action.
As it stood, Edwin needed another individual to join the mix. If they did, and were willing to go first, they could perform one of the hits, and then the second hit would fall into place. Barry would then stiff the newcomer by never carrying out his side of the deal. He could even give out the details of one of the other parties to the last of the killers. If that one then sought retribution, the only details he would have would lead him to either an elusive hit man who would be long gone, or one of the earlier dupes who had committed murder at Edwin's behest.
This would leave Edwin free and clear, as Edwin's name would never feature into the deal, and the police couldn't possibly match up the myriad London murders to find the ones that were linked. Even if they did link the last few kills, Edwin was well removed from them, as the only victim he could be concretely linked to was Eleanor, and he had been on a plane at the time of her death.
Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel) Page 13
