Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel)

by Campbell, Sean

  He called out to the WPC who was now acting as his personal assistant.

  'Stevenson! Five minutes, we're going to the zoo!'

  It was one of the oddest commands that WPC Stevenson had heard in her time at the Met, and she couldn't help but be a wiseass, even though she knew Morton might chew her up for it later.

  'OK, Daddy, will you buy me an ice cream?' She smirked, but grabbed the car keys all the same.

  ***

  It was clear Yosef had no intention of carrying out the hit he had agreed to. Edwin could engage in verbal sparring with him over the darknet, but it would be of no use. It would be far better to let Yosef think he had accepted the withdrawal, and simply pass his details on to Ant. If there was one thing Edwin had learnt as a newspaper editor it was that, when possible, you let someone else deal with your mess. Edwin had never been a fantastic writer, but his ability to delegate was extraordinary.

  He knew he would have to slip the information in casually. Not:

  'Sorry, couldn't fulfil on time. My kid was in hospital due to his Tay-Sachs. When next? Yosef'

  That one message would probably be enough to identify him, but Edwin wanted to string Ant out a bit further. There wasn't much benefit to it, other than gaining him credibility for slipping info in, but Edwin had begun to enjoy the feeling of power that surged through him when he successfully manipulated people.

  CHAPTER 47: SNAKES

  WPC Stevenson wouldn't stop talking. She had a tendency to babble when excited, and it been non-stop since they got in the car.

  'Did you know the reptile house is almost a century old, and it was used to film Harry Potter in?'

  Thankfully, it was a short car journey. The keeper in the snake house had readily agreed to talk to them when they had phoned ahead. When they got there, the snakes were waiting, as was the keeper.

  'Hi, are you the keeper we spoke to on the phone?' Stevenson opened her mouth before Morton could raise a hand to stay her.

  'I'm not a keeper, but yes, we did speak on the phone.' A wry smile appeared on Dr Philippa Aldridge's face.

  'If you're not a keeper, what are you then?' It was Morton's turn to seize the lead in the conversation.

  'I'm a herpetologist. I study amphibians,' she explained.

  'We're investigating a death involving taipoxin. Who could have access to your inland taipans?'

  'Anyone with a key to that door.' She pointed at the keeper’s entrance allowing access to the rear of the tanks.

  'Got a list?'

  'Nope, but I can tell you no one's been near these babies but me.' Her voice was strong and confident.

  'How's that?'

  'Look there.' She was pointing at the corner of the snake habitat. It took a moment for Morton to spot what she was gesturing at. London Zoo had installed web cameras in the cages to help monitor all the animals, as well as provide marketing footage. Anyone who had been in contact with the snakes would have been on the video.

  'We're going to have to see the footage,' Morton said calmly. She had just made herself the only viable suspect, and Morton doubted this woman was a deadly killer. He'd check her alibi anyway, but his gut was rarely wrong.

  'Sure thing, just talk to our IT department. They keep it for about six months before it gets trashed.'

  'Thank you for your time, Dr Aldridge.' Morton nodded respectfully as they made their departure.

  ***

  It was obvious that the contact was a time-waster. Ant had exchanged dozens of messages with him, and he was still no closer to getting the deal upheld. They had agreed that it would be carried out the previous evening, but once again the darknet contact was full of apologies and excuses when Ant confirmed that Jake was still breathing. It simply wouldn't suffice. Ant would have to do it himself. He already had blood on his hands, so the risk of a second life sentence was not much of a deterrent. He'd been in jail already, and he knew that being known as a mass murderer would actually get him respect in the joint. With a reputation for multiple kills the rumours would spread, and no one would dare touch him. He might be back inside, but it wasn't as bad as the general public thought. He could even do a degree for free, when on the outside he'd be charged nearly nine large per year. Ant chuckled; so much for its being a punishment.

  A decent lawyer and he might even get away with it. He could act crazy if it would see him walk away scot-free. It was time for Ant to take matters into his own hands.

  ***

  Morton's hunch was on the money. The herpetologist was clean. No one else had been near the snakes, and she hadn't been on the ferry. It was possible she'd milked the snakes and sold the venom, but her lifestyle was modest and nothing in her financials suggested such impropriety.

  The IT techs said the video file was clean too, so Morton could rule out tampering there to cover up illicit access. That left three categories for possible access to the snakes: other licensed dealers outside London but in the UK such as other zoos, unlicensed owners, or foreign import. The research said that the venom remained viable for a considerable period after it was milked, and with proper storage it was perfectly possible that access had happened months ago, or that the venom was shipped in. It was the only angle that the police had to pursue on the forensic front, but it was beginning to look like a dead end.

  Morton sighed. It looked like the investigation would need to delve more deeply into the victim's past, which he knew was tied up with the previous attack by the late Peter K Sugden. He suspected that the whole thing might be a tangled web of insider trading, but he just couldn't find the right thread to pull to start unravelling the mystery. It pained Morton, but it was time to swallow his pride, and go talk to the dandy from the FSA.

  ***

  To get the job done properly, Ant knew he would have to do it himself, and he firmly believed that there was no point putting off until tomorrow that which could be done today. His plan was already coming together. This time, it would be fatal. The kill would take place in another city, and he hadn't had contact with the victim in a long time.

  He had been careful to avoid the obvious trap of exacting revenge within a short period after his release from prison. He would have liked nothing more, but it would have been extremely obvious, and almost certainly have required him to break the conditions of his parole.

  Ant knew he had a significant height advantage over his intended victim, but he would be recognised if Jake spotted him, so he would have to move with considerable stealth. He would hire a car on Saturday, and drive it to Southampton airport ostensibly for a holiday. There, it would be returned to the vehicle hire company. The last leg of the journey would be done by train. It wasn't quite a direct route, but he intended to stay in Southampton in the evening to provide something of an alibi.

  Tickets for a gig he had no intention of going to were primed and ready in his wallet. A copy of the band's latest album was on his MP3 player, so if he was questioned he could answer general questions without any cause for concern. The venue he had chosen was an old-fashioned one. The newer gig venues used electronic tickets, and would flag the fact he never went.

  In reality he intended to place a small explosive inside Jake's car. The device would be simple in the extreme. A radio switch would be placed inside his petrol tank that would create a spark, exploding the car from the inside out. The range of the switch would be limited to around a metre, and the activation key would be receiving a mobile phone text. Given that he parked on the driveway at his home, the odds that someone other than him would be that close at the time of receiving a text would be minimal. Assuming that the tank was full it would create an explosion encompassing around fifteen feet, with the car chassis acting as shrapnel.

  CHAPTER 48: THE COLONNADE

  The office was among the highest in the building. With views out over Canary Wharf, 25 The Colonnade was a building that any bank would be proud to inhabit. Instead it was home to a government regulator, the Financial Services Authority.

  Morton, with
WPC Stevenson in tow, had easily cleared security and they were now faced with a heavy oak door leading to a corner office on the eleventh floor. Morton rapped loudly on the door, and proceeded to open it.

  'Mr Burrows?'

  'My my, Detective Chief Inspector Morton. How the mighty have fallen, eh?' Michael Burrows was as obnoxious as Morton remembered him being the first time they had met, when he had found Burrows sat in his office, feet on his desk. It was unlikely the two men would ever be more than cordial to each other after such an aggressive first meeting.

  'Mr Burrows, I need to ask you a few questions.' Morton tried to avoid a churlish response.

  'Fine, what do you want?' He snapped his laptop lid down, and turned his attention to the two police officers now occupying his office.

  'Your investigation into Mr Sugden. What evidence did you have that he was involved in insider trading?'

  Burrows sighed, buzzed his secretary to bring in three coffees, and settled in for the long haul.

  'All stock trades are now electronic. One trader posts an offer to buy, another to sell, and the system matches the offers. Most professionals make a reasonable sum of money, but Sugden, among others, was consistently buying bull stock right before big news was announced, as well as going bear on stocks before losses came to light.'

  'Bull and bear?'

  'Bull stocks are those on the up, so you want to buy them. Bear are those that are about to crash, so you want to sell, or even short them.'

  'OK, and Sugden was right too often?'

  'A certain amount of it can be attributed to market rumours. Most traders live by how much confidence they think the market has in a stock. It's often more about the perception of a stock's value than how much it is really worth. The problem is that Sugden wasn't going by the rumour mill. Several times in the last year stocks have been rumoured about to crash, and instead of selling like everyone else Sugden would buy the stocks everyone was offloading on the cheap. The news would then turn out to be false, and Sugden would double his money in a single morning. As a one-off, it might be lauded, but his group consistently made huge amounts.'

  'How did he find out about the stocks?' Stevenson chipped in.

  'We can only speculate.'

  'What's your best guess?' Morton asked as the coffee arrived. He declined sugar as Burrows stirred three into his coffee, black.

  'Come with me.' Burrows rose, striding quickly for the door. Slightly perplexed, the investigators tailed him, curious expressions splashed across their faces.

  He led them into a larger room, with a conference table in the middle and a number of charts, documents and photos on displays down the length of the wall. It was eerily reminiscent of the police squad room when everyone was roped into a particularly intriguing case.

  Burrows gestured at a collection of photographs near one end.

  'These gentlemen have all appeared on our radar after making gains that would be hard to explain by mere luck. They all make losses, but those losses are without exception far smaller than the gargantuan gains they make. All the men are connected personally, even if only remotely. Several of them are linked by alma mater, professional training, place of birth and past employment. The connections are slim at best and don't appear to point to a cohesive group. Their market positions, however, almost always coincide, even when the general market opinion is against them.'

  'So you think they are working together?'

  'Yes. Between them they seem to have developed an extensive collective network, one that would explain how they are getting their information.'

  'I'm sensing a "but" in there?' Morton smiled mirthlessly.

  'Yes. The "but" in the equation is: I can't for the life of me work out how they are communicating. No letters, texts, calls, emails, couriered messages or in-person meetings have taken place. I have extensive surveillance on all of them, and my agents have seen nothing.'

  'Doesn't sound like you've got much to go on. I guess we're on our own.'

  ***

  The journey took Ant longer than he expected. It was nearing nightfall when he made it into Portsmouth. His jury-rigged device was safe inside a backpack. Without the petrol inside the car, it posed no threat. A jiggler key rounded out the required kit, and was tucked safely inside a pocket, hidden from prying eyes. Jake's car was an older-style Fiat, and getting into the fuel cap would be fairly trivial. By bumping the inside of a tumbler lock Ant could force the pins up above the lock for a fraction of a second. If done while nudging the jiggler forward and turning, it would allow the cap to be opened without the proper key. It was an old lag's trick, and Ant had heard about it many times while in prison. It wasn't something he had much experience in doing, but he had practised on his own car, and was confident that he could open the cap inside thirty seconds flat.

  The plan was to wait for dark before making his move. He would need a full two minutes to get to the car, open the cap and get out without being seen. Daylight would put him in plain view, and while the house was at the end of a cul-de-sac, there was the possibility that there would be neighbours around that could spot the movement.

  Google Street View had shown Ant that a solitary street lamp lit the road in the evening, and Ant guessed it would kick in around six. On a Wednesday night Ant was fairly certain that footfall would drop to zero after around ten o'clock. There would likely be a few students in the various pubs in the area, but Taswell Road wasn't on any of the major routes, and few lived there. The houses were largely recessed from the road, fences and hedges obscuring the driveways from view.

  At eleven o'clock, Ant made his way to the street. A few drunks could be seen near the Taswell Arms pub. The road was laid out as an inverted T section, with one side running north-south, and the bottom of the T containing the target house. The north of the cul-de-sac was a school, and the CCTV on the gates would cover part of the pavement on that side of the road.

  Ant was careful to stick to the south side of the road, avoiding the ever-watchful cameras. No one was in sight, and he passed into the driveway of Jake's home without being challenged. A crackle rang out in the darkness, somewhere nearby, and Ant drew closer to the wall for cover, holding his breath to ensure silence. Thirty seconds passed, and he heard nothing. By the one-minute mark his blood was pumping, beginning to pound in his ears, and a sharp intake of breath ensued as his lungs screamed out for air. He didn't know how long passed before he allowed himself to move again, his muscles a little stiffer for the experience.

  He slowly inched towards the fuel cap. It was at the back right of the car, close to the house. If anyone inside went past the bay window that guarded the lounge he would be caught. Moving quickly he jiggled the lock. A forensic examination would show that the lock had been bumped, but Ant was confident that the explosion would destroy all the evidence.

  With a wrench the fuel cap came off in his hand. He delved inside the bag at his feet, and pulled out the device. He had balled up the device his Irish cellmate had taught him to build. He had tied one end to a short length of string. He held the string, then lowered it in carefully, listening out for the splash that would indicate he had gone too far. The device needed to be near the petrol, but not in it as only the fumes could be lit from the spark. If the device were to become submerged, it would fail. He taped it off inside the fuel cap, and replaced the cap to conceal his treachery.

  He rose slowly to avoid making any further noise and lifted his bag gently onto his back. It was now redundant, and he would dump it somewhere before returning to London in case the police traced him by CCTV – a man with a bag would be seen far more easily than one without. He moved on the balls of his feet, scarpering out of the driveway and doubling back along the road away from the house.

  He debated finding a 24-hour bar to wait out the night, but a lone drinker arriving near the witching hour would be remembered, and the explosion was bound to make the national media sit up and take notice. Instead he would sleep on the seafront. It was quiet, and he kne
w that the many benches would be a magnet for the homeless. He could easily kill time there before catching a cab in the morning.

  ***

  As the sun rose over the ocean, Ant realised that he was exposed. He had not expected to fall asleep on the hard bench, and to regain consciousness as early morning runners jogged by was disconcerting. He had to get out of Portsmouth before he was seen. He made his way to the train station. He could have simply taken a train, but the police would be bound to look at the CCTV covering those leaving the city in the wake of an explosion.

  Instead, his destination was the nearby taxi rank. With the air of someone in a hurry he demanded to be taken to Petersfield. It was a regional trading hub, and he knew it would be easy to get onwards passage there via train back to London. As his taxi pulled into the market town, Ant sent a text to Jake's phone which set off the receiver in his car. The resulting explosion engulfed the car in a ball of flames that blew out the windows of his house, scattering metal and glass over a fifteen yard radius.

  CHAPTER 49: PANIC

  Half the city had been cordoned off by the police. They had no idea whether or not it was an isolated incident, and they were taking no chances. The road was photographed from every angle, with every shard, fragment and remnant being bagged and tagged. The forensic evidence would be so extensive that the regional processing centre used by the Hampshire Constabulary would be backed up for weeks. The point of origin was discovered in little time. All the damage radiated out from the car parked in front of 2 Taswell Street.