Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel)

by Campbell, Sean

  Edwin would have orchestrated a number of murders, but paid for none of them, and he had a solid alibi for all of them. It was, in Edwin's humble opinion, a stroke of genius on his part. It was no wonder the crime rate was so high when it was so easy to manipulate pawns into carrying out his orders unwittingly. It was a beautiful spider's web of criminality, in which Edwin was at the centre, but no one would ever find out.

  The web was soon to be closed for good.

  CHAPTER 33: PAPER TRAIL

  Luke Garth, the tech who had used acid etching to reveal the serial number, did not remain idle for long. The gun had been seized in a drug raid conducted by narcotics in the summer of the previous year in accordance with Code B of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, the major legislation controlling seizure of property in the UK. In total 391 guns had been seized, of a variety of calibres and types. It had been a major raid that year, and the criminal litigation was still ongoing. Pursuant to department policy, once forensic data had been gathered and independently verified the guns were sent for destruction. A C57A form was still on record for the items, but it was redundant as the owners would never be able to reclaim the guns.

  David Morton had completed the correct form F103A, dated 11th December, that was required to mandate destruction of the weaponry. The guns were due to be shredded after Christmas, but had clearly gone missing after this point. The guns would have been stored in the evidence locker pending destruction, and should have been signed out to be destroyed. The correct form had been lodged for their removal, citing a civilian contractor as the point of disposal for shredding.

  Luke wanted to call the company and see if the shipment had reached them, but doing so would alert them that the disappearance was being investigated. If they hadn't received an expected shipment they surely would have contacted the police, Luke reasoned. It was fair to assume therefore that someone at the recipient company, ARM Disposal UK Ltd, was involved.

  Luke swivelled his chair round to face his computer terminal. Bringing up the UK's company-house search service, Webcheck, Luke typed in the details for ARM and requested a list of their directors.

  'Name & Registered Office:

  ARM DISPOSAL UK LTD

  POST RESTANTE

  10 WATERLOO PLACE

  LONDON

  ENGLAND

  SW1Y 4AN

  Company No. 907304166

  Directors:

  Arthur Friedrich

  Jane Friedrich

  Secretary:

  Jane Friedrich'

  Oddly enough, the address pertained to a post office collection box in the heart of London. A quick search for the directors showed that neither name brought up anyone licensed to dispose of armaments. It was time to turn over the investigation to the professionals.

  Luke printed out what he had found, filled in an internal IPCC referral form that would turn over jurisdiction to the Internal Investigations Unit at the IPCC, and filled in the requisite information.

  ***

  Pierre was used to travelling, and loved to people-watch as he travelled. He had found the money in a locker at Victoria Station as promised, wrapped in an old gym bag. There was a mixture of £5, £10 and £20 notes in non-sequential numbers. After a quick check while in the disabled bathroom, Pierre put the bag back into another locker. He didn't handle cash himself, preferring to leave the administrative details to the man who could loosely be called his banker. The banker was a fixer of sorts, catering to a variety of clientele, moving money, exchanging money and occasionally rendering a service of some kind. He was a fixer, and his job was to take the money in London, and pay the same amount minus his fee of ten percent in euros back in France. It was illegal of course, but extremely lucrative. Maintaining clients in multiple countries, he simply swapped their money between them when required, and pocketed a commission from both of them for the pleasure.

  He also supplied a small gun. Pierre had asked him to offset the money he was depositing against a Saturday night special, any cheap and untraceable gun that could be found at short notice. This was placed back into yet another locker to be collected by another of Pierre's lackeys.

  It cost him £350, but the piece was well worth every penny. He had tracked his prey by CCTV. Unlike the police he didn't bother with warrants, simply hiring individuals who could obtain the information without asking questions. He knew that on Sunday the man would take a ferry from Portsmouth to Le Havre, taking an inside cabin for the five-hour journey.

  The plan was simple. He would board the ship, kill the man in his own cabin and dump the weapon in the sea. Then he'd walk away never to be seen again. With a shipboard capacity of almost 6000 it would take the police a long time to work through who was who, and by then he'd be far away and have changed his appearance significantly. With any luck the British and French would spend so much time arguing over jurisdiction that the trail would be arctic by the time any investigation started.

  CHAPTER 34: HOT PURSUIT

  The suspect still hadn't surfaced. He had been on the run for a while now, and Rosenburg suspected that he had some help. His finances showed no withdrawals, and none of the CCTV systems the police actively monitored had caught him. Rosenburg cursed. If only London had sprung for an integrated CCTV system it would be far quicker to find those the police were investigating.

  'Sir, we might have to consider he has fled London,' a deputy suggested gingerly.

  'Maybe. Where does he have connections to?'

  'Mostly the north, sir, he's lived all over Yorkshire but his heritage is mixed. He could have relatives anywhere.'

  'Get on with tracking the possibilities. Call all known associates personally, and fish for information. He's got to turn up sooner or later.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Rosenburg turned back to the squad room's active investigations board. He still had more work than he could possibly handle. Finding one man among the 62 million or so living on the tiny island that is the United Kingdom was easier said than done. He simply didn't have the manpower, or the computing power to keep searching indefinitely. Once thirty days had passed he could pass it to the cold case squad. At least then it wouldn't count against him in his annual review. Likewise, if he could fob it off on Interpol it would no longer be his problem. All he had to do was evidence a reasonable belief that Barry had fled the country, and he'd be out of Rosenburg's hair.

  ***

  The letter had arrived that morning. It was addressed to David Morton, but Sarah opened it first as her husband was still asleep. It was from the human resources department, and contained an offer for early retirement. The Met was offering to top up his pensions contribution as if he had been pensioned off at his normal retirement age. It was a generous offer, and Sarah knew that the girls in HR must have fought hard to get him it. She also knew her husband would not take it. His stubborn determination had been one of the qualities she had most admired in him when they were courting. He was fiercely loyal, and he never backed down when he thought he was right, and he believed that his future was in the force. He still had potentially a decade before he needed to retire, and if he carried on catching them as he had for the last few decades then his work would keep dozens of violent criminals off the streets. It wasn't something he would willingly give up in return for cash.

  She'd have to take him up the letter sooner or later, but it wouldn't hurt to get him in a good mood first. She set the letter on the table, and turned on the Aga to cook him breakfast.

  ***

  The last swap was arranged without much ado. The final piece of Edwin's puzzle fell into place. The final contact would fulfil the assassin's kill request. The assassin would then kill Barry to close the loop, and the final contact would kill for the final contact. Edwin would then cut his last contact loose, knowing that he had no information on him personally, and even if he did he wouldn't be able to turn to the police to pursue the non-performance. Edwin chuckled as he imagined that conversation. 'Hi, officer, a man stole my mone
y when I paid him to commit murder for me, but I don't know who he is.' With any luck they might even find him a nice tight straitjacket.

  Even Edwin was impressed with the deviousness of his plan. It was every inch as clever as he could have hoped, and he knew he was going to quite literally get away with murder. He allowed himself a few moments to bask in his own evil, a smug expression fixed on his features.

  Edwin breathed, exhaling deeply and letting the stress of the last few weeks go out of him. It would be over soon, and he could go back to just being a dad, and maybe even take an exciting new job in Vancouver.

  ***

  David didn't suspect a thing when his wife appeared by the bed with a cup of coffee and a large cooked breakfast. He loved to surprise her, and she occasionally reciprocated. It wasn't until he was satiated by the grease that she broached the subject of the letter.

  'This came for you, dear,' she said, passing it over nonchalantly.

  His eyes narrowed. It was obvious she had read it, and in hindsight the obvious bribery of the fry-up meant it was important, and that he wouldn't like the contents.

  ***

  Pierre had been incredibly specific about his requirements. A businessman was travelling with a lady companion. The man had cheated a client of his, and the client wanted retribution. The man was to die in great pain, and the woman was to watch.

  The contact, Ant, had no problem with this as long as the requisite items were supplied along with a concrete plan. He had grown to enjoy violence in prison. It was sick, but after being victimised he felt the need to victimise others to reassert his own status.

  The target was having dinner at a small restaurant in Camden Lock. The All-American Diner was a quiet venue, with a number of private booths. The couple were to be seated in the rear booth, near the kitchen door, through which a fire escape could be found. The owner had been bribed to look the other way, and to ensure that the old-fashioned CCTV system was out of tape.

  Ant arrived a little after six. He knew the couple wouldn't finish dinner till about seven, and he wanted them to be a little tipsy.

  The plan was simple enough. Red wine would be laced with Rohypnol, and the couple would be led out the rear door to a waiting car that Pierre had supplied. They would then be taken to an old warehouse in Dukes Road, Euston. It was isolated, and would be an ideal place for Pierre's demands to be carried out.

  CHAPTER 35: QUIS CUSTODIET IPSOS CUSTODES?

  Theresa West rubbed her eyes, desperately trying to avert a yawn. The document before her was potentially the most explosive issue she had dealt with since joining the Internal Investigations Unit.

  She was used to dealing with cops who had accepted bribes, or vice cops looking the other way in return for favours. Her pulse quickened as she read the Garth Report.

  It was an alarming internal report that guns may have been trafficked out of the evidence locker and back onto the street. If it was proven to be true the Metropolitan police would suffer a shellacking in the press the likes of which they had never seen before. It would almost certainly result in a judicial inquiry, and would have repercussions for many years to come.

  As far as Theresa could tell the guns had been properly confiscated. The raid had been meticulously planned, and the execution was one of the many fables that built up the legend of Detective Chief Inspector David Morton. It had been a stroke of genius to use stun gas to take out their armament store, and had probably saved more than a few police lives. The gang concerned was prepared for a protracted conflict, and even the heavy riot gear would not suppress such high-calibre fire all the time.

  The guns had been properly transported in secure vans back to the evidence locker. It was clear from the records that none of the guns had disappeared before the destruction forms were completed by the commanding officer who had seized them.

  It was odd that the form had been completed just before Christmas, giving a full three-week period for the guns to go AWOL without anyone being any the wiser, but Morton had never been a fan of paperwork and may well have simply dealt with it at the most expedient time for him. He had always kept a heavy workload, and that year was no exception.

  Despite his reputation he would still be the primary focus of the investigation. The guns were his responsibility until they reached the civilian contractors engaged to dispose of the weaponry, and there was no evidence that any impropriety had taken place on this occasion. The uniforms engaged in the transport of the guns would also be interviewed individually and possibly even subjected to a polygraph if the Internal Investigations Unit thought it useful. Luke Garth would be put on record to confirm that the method of recovery of the serial was correct in case it was needed for a criminal prosecution, and the recipient civilian firm would eventually be searched in a dawn raid to check for any evidence that the consignment had made it that far.

  ***

  Ant had checked out the plan meticulously. If there was one thing that he had been taught in prison, it was that more criminals were caught by being careless than by bad luck. One slip-up could leave forensic evidence tying him to the crime, and he knew the police probably had his DNA on file from before.

  The warehouse was fairly large, with one main point of entry at the front. It was unbolted, as promised, with a key inside. Ant would lock it after his initial reconnaissance. The interior was sparse, with a few stud walls pushed up against the extremities. They were clearly designed to help divide the internal floor space between shared use, or for different purposes.

  Ant wheeled a few of them together to create a box in the centre of the warehouse, giving in effect a second pair of curtains should anyone be attempting to look through the grimy Victorian windows in the street. It was unlikely, as they were well above head height, but Ant was taking no chances.

  The instructions he had received were explicit that the man suffer great pain, but Ant had been left a huge freedom of choice in how to inflict that pain. A veritable torturer's toolkit had been supplied in a large wooden chest in the rear of the building. Some were innocuous in an industrial setting, such as the power tools, saws and vices. Others spoke more clearly of the chest's sinister nature. Acid, barbiturates and cat-o'-nine-tails rounded out the collection. Ant's contact clearly meant business.

  Satisfied he had everything he needed, Ant pocketed a couple of pairs of handcuffs. Although the targets would be drugged it was best to restrain them too.

  Ant watched them throughout their meal, letting them enjoy a last meal together before he struck. It even gave him time to sample the house delicacies, enjoying a southern fried rack of ribs with a side of slaw.

  As they drank the bottle of wine (a gift, on the house, to avoid the chance they wouldn't imbibe alcohol) they fell under the spell of the Rohypnol. Their conversation soon became incoherent, a stream of nonsense no one but they could understand. The waiter signalled it was time to get them into the back of the vehicle waiting out back. It was parked on double yellows, but a disabled badge on the dashboard kept it free of parking attendants.

  Ant brushed through the door towards the parked taxi, and unlocked the door. As he left he heard the waiter say to the couple:

  'Your taxi has arrived, sir.'

  'We ordered a taxi?' Or at least, that's what he tried to say, instead muttering inaudibly.

  'Yes, sir. It's waiting outside.'

  'I must have had a few to drink!'

  'Not to worry, sir, and thank you for the generous tip.'

  It was this line that sealed the couple's trust in the waiter. They hadn't paid, of course; Ant had done that for them, but no one would argue to try and pay twice. They allowed the man to lead them through the rear door to the taxi, and staggered in.

  'Royal Horseguards Parade please, mate,' the man slurred, the woman already slumped in the back seat.

  'Let me help you with your bags,' Ant offered, stepping out towards him. It took the man too long to realise he didn't have a bag with him. His eyes widened in terror as the cuffs click
ed about his wrist. Ant could see he was going to scream, and quickly clapped his left hand over the man's mouth, a chloroform-drenched towel in his palm. The man slumped into the seat. He would be out cold for at least an hour, and that would be ample time.

  Ant glanced around to make sure no one had witnessed the incident, but his contact had chosen well. There was little foot traffic outside, and the street lamp was broken. Cars could be heard in the distance, but the road was only used for access and no one had tried to pass in the three minutes the whole job had taken. Ant strapped the man in, leaning the woman into him to give the illusion of a cosy scene to any curious onlookers, and then put his foot on the pedal.

  CHAPTER 36: PAIN

  They awoke in the stark warehouse, but they were unable to see the size of it as the centre had been marked out with dividers, electrical outlets on extension socks visible underneath the boards.

  The toolbox was out of sight. Ant didn't want his victims to know what was coming.

  A makeshift rack had been put up using old scaffolding, and the man was tied up on it. His arms were bound behind and above him, contorted so that he hung by his shoulders. Too long in the position and they would dislocate.

  She had been far more lucky. The chair into which she was tied was not comfortable, but she wasn't in pain, yet. Both of them were bound too tightly to move, and neither could yell out as they had been thoroughly gagged.

  Footsteps thundered, echoing through the building. As they grew louder Ant appeared through a gap in the stud walls at the south end, behind the man. Ant knew they were thirsty; the combination of Rohypnol and alcohol would ensure that much. A glass of water was perched on a table in the corner. His instructions had said nothing about deliberately being cruel to the victim. His contact really only wanted to send a message, a warning to anyone considering cheating his contact's client. The body had to remain sufficiently whole that the injuries could be ascertained. An eviscerated body would not serve properly as a disincentive.