Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel)

by Campbell, Sean

'Hundreds of people. It's a busy area. We know from the canvassing deputies did in the area that a workman was in the garage. We started trying to find him, as we thought he could potentially be our star witness.'

  'But he's not a witness. He's the perp.' A light bulb clicked on in Morton's head.

  'Exactly. No one else went in or out, and it explains why no one noticed him.'

  'So, you tracked him on the CCTV?'

  'Yep. He disappears after a while, but not before leaning against a bus stop while flagging down a taxi.'

  'Where?' If they were quick, they might still be able to pull prints, and run them through the national database.

  'Park road. Opposite the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists.'

  'I'm on my way.'

  ***

  Morton pulled the prints from the bus stop himself. It wasn't a job he was required to do, but he hated sitting around waiting for someone else to carry out the grunt work, especially when he was fully certified to do something so basic. The job took much longer than he expected as there were hundreds of prints.

  By the time he was finished it looked like someone had dusted the whole bus stop, as if a bag of cocaine had been exploded nearby. Each print was lifted by hand, and the techs back at the lab would scan the lot to digitise them, and then compare them all with the national database.

  By the time he had logged all the prints, it was nearing dark. He dropped the lot off for the graveyard shift to begin processing, and headed home. Sarah would be annoyed if he didn't make it back by the time dinner was on the table.

  ***

  Edwin had begun packing moments after sending his acceptance email.

  He wanted to leave the bulk of the furniture in the house, as he knew that would aid an eventual sale, and he didn't fancy the cost of transatlantic shipping anyway. The rest would be put in storage until he needed it. The paper had agreed to a relocation allowance for him, so his new pad would be furnished exactly how he liked it, rather than to Eleanor's more refined taste. A huge flat-screen television was top of his to-buy list.

  The plan was to rent at first. The move wasn't irrevocable if he found that he missed the big smoke. His townhouse in Belgrave Square would rent out for an obscene amount that might well eclipse his new salary, and a similar property in Vancouver, while pricey, would certainly not run to quite as much. He was ready for a smaller place, less showy and not so central. A decent garden would go a long way to keeping him in Canada.

  Chelsea wasn't so enthusiastic. As he boxed up, she was kicking and screaming in that infuriatingly high-pitched way that only little girls can do.

  'I don't want to!' she screamed, her pigtails bouncing up and down as she jumped.

  'Why not, baby?'

  'My friends are here!'

  'You'll make new friends, princess.'

  It didn't matter how reasoned Edwin's reply was, the conversation always looped back to the beginning.

  'Don't want to!' was the order of the day, and nothing he could say was going to change that.

  ***

  The prints at the bus stop belonged to almost fifty individuals. Thirty-six were in the system for one reason or another. Morton immediately discounted all the women, the non-whites and the sole disabled person on the list. The photos clearly showed a tall white male. That still left ten possibilities among the known prints, and a further fourteen in the unknown pile.

  Morton fervently hoped that the perpetrator was among those on file, as otherwise it was almost back to square one again. He was actively pursuing the victim angle as well, and had sent deputies to canvass work colleagues, friends and family, but nothing useful had surfaced yet. If the forensics team didn't find him a potential suspect he would have to concentrate his personal efforts on getting inside the life of the victim.

  He gave WPC Stevenson the job of sorting the suspects into a list. She'd have to prioritise the order in which he approached them to try and maximise his efficiency. He could get used to having a personal WPC following him around like a puppy. It wouldn't last of course. Sooner or later HR would pronounce him fully fit to return to work, and then he'd have to do his own grunt work.

  CHAPTER 54: SHOTGUN REFLEXES

  'Police! Open up!' Morton called out.

  They heard someone scrabbling around inside.

  'He's going for the fire escape! Open it!' He gestured for the man with the ram to step in.

  The door splintered in one hit, the metal ram making short work of the plywood. WPC Stevenson thrust a hand in front of Morton, gesturing for him to stay back.

  'Remember what happened last time?' she whispered with a wink.

  'Snarky bitch,' he muttered, under his breath. He stepped back all the same.

  She raced in, followed by three more deputies. They pressed forwards, advancing on different rooms.

  'Clear!'

  'Clear!'

  'Got visual!'

  WPC Debra Stevenson made it first. A shot rang out, and she crumpled to the floor, clutching at her abdomen to try and stem the bleeding.

  'Shit!' Morton pulled his weapon, and charged in. The target, Antonio Milano, was shaking violently. He had never fired a gun before. Morton nudged the gun gently out of his hands, passing it backwards to the waiting hands of a deputy.

  'Antonio Milano, you are under arrest...' Morton began, clicking the handcuffs onto the suspect. Another deputy radioed for medical attention. She was bleeding out fast, a rosy stain spreading across her blouse.

  ***

  WPC Stevenson was rushed to hospital faster than Morton thought humanly possible. But first he kept pressure on the wound until the paramedics arrived, and only reluctantly let go even then.

  The bleeding was profuse. Gushing spurts of blood erupted between the paramedic's fingers. By the time she was taken to the ambulance the group looked like a horror film. With the level of bleeding she was experiencing it quickly became apparent she would need a blood transfusion on arrival at the hospital.

  'What's her blood type?' The paramedic demanded.

  'Oh god.' Morton's usually-perfect memory turned up a blank.

  'Think, damn it!' The paramedic actually yelled at him.

  'O Positive,' he replied as the ambulance screeched to a stop.

  'Good man. Let's get her inside.'

  ***

  WPC Debra Stevenson was pronounced dead less than fifteen minutes after she arrived. The blood loss had been too dramatic. Morton howled as he was given the news. Her foibles had annoyed him, but in the two short weeks they had been working together he had become quite fond of her.

  He'd have to inform the family personally. She was his responsibility, and died as a direct result of a live investigation. Then he'd get revenge on the bastard that did this. Five minutes alone with Antonio Milano would be all he'd need. Beyond that he didn't care what happened. The serial-killing bastard would suffer.

  ***

  'Give me a few minutes.' Morton gestured for the custody sergeant to leave the interview suite.

  Without a word to the suspect, Morton kicked his chair over backwards, toppling him to the floor.

  'She's dead.' He spat at Antonio Milano, narrowly missing his face.

  'I didn't mean-a to do it,' he said with a thick accent that added an 'a' to the end of every word.

  'You shot her in cold blood.' He shook Antonio as rage coursed through him, avoiding the urge to punch him, so there wouldn't be any marks.

  'You burst in on me, with guns!' He had a point.

  'We came to talk to you, and you shot at us.'

  'Whaddya wanna talk about?'

  'Yosef Gershwin.'

  'Who's-a that?' His accent was grating on Morton, who was by now convinced it was being put on just to piss him off.

  'Don't play games with me,' Morton growled; his voice was gravelly, barely containing his anger.

  'I don't-a know him!'

  As Morton was about to berate him further someone knocked on the door.

 
'Come in,' Morton said, edging away from the floored man.

  A deputy walked in, his eyebrow cocked at the scene in front of him.

  'He fell over.' Morton knew he was convincing no one.

  'OK. Got some results back for you, boss.' He handed him an envelope.

  Morton tore open the strip at the top and decanted the contents into his hands.

  Antonio Milano's DNA didn't match. He didn't kill Yosef Gershwin.

  ***

  The list was getting shorter by the hour. A number had been interviewed by deputies, and all had alibis for the time of the killing. None had any connection to Yosef Gershwin.

  There were three possible suspects left when Morton struck gold. Anthony Duvall was a low-level drugs dealer who had spent time at Her Majesty's pleasure, and his previous line-up photos, while out of date, did conform to the CCTV upon a visual inspection.

  Morton pulled up his address in the system; it was still listed, as his parole was fairly recent and the system hadn't been purged since. It was local.

  He shouted for a few deputies to join him. This time they were taking no chances. They would surround the property with enough deputies to guarantee they nailed their man.

  Thirty minutes later, and they were outside in unmarked vehicles. They couldn't afford to spook their man lest someone else end up getting hurt. Morton hung back. He was under strict instructions from HR not to take any risks. One more bullet or blade, and that would be the end of his career.

  It was with great trepidation that he kept back, waiting near the entrance to the apartment building. There were two doors into the building, and each was manned by two officers. No one would go in or out without their say-so, and Morton was fully prepared to go door-to-door to find their man. This time, they had found him. Morton knew it in his gut.

  The first two deputies, McShane and Dockerty, were given the go-ahead to advance. Six flights up they paused on the landing to make sure neither had built up an oxygen debt.

  'Ready?'

  Dockerty nodded. Flat 617 was just down the hall.

  'Police! Open up!'

  A chain rattled, and the door inched open.

  'Got some ID?' Anthony Duvall was cool as a cucumber.

  Dockerty flashed his badge, and the door slammed shut. He expected to hear the chain rattle again, and the door open. Instead he heard the toilet flush.

  'Open her up!' McShane slammed the battering ram into the door. It stayed in one piece, but swung open. Anthony Duvall could be seen flushing packages down the toilet.

  'Drugs? He thought we were here for drugs?' Dockerty was quizzical.

  'Aye. Well, we arrest the laddie for possession, process him and let Morton deal with 'im after that.'

  Dockerty nodded and stepped towards Duvall.

  'Anthony Duvall, you are under arrest for possession of a controlled substance. You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?'

  He nodded.

  'Cart him away.'

  CHAPTER 55: TAPED

  'We've got the bastard.' This time, CCTV analysis confirmed the match. They could hold initially him thanks to the drugs charge. Morton had tried to start the interrogation as soon as he was in-station, but the greasy bastard had clammed up and demanded a lawyer within seconds of their opening fresh tapes.

  'Get the Crown Prosecution Service on the phone. I may need them to extend the time period for detention.' The police could detain without charge for 36 hours before they needed to go to court. They would charge him with the drugs, but there was the possibility he'd make bail on that charge at the first hearing, and they might need to keep him off the streets a bit longer. With a magistrate agreeing they could keep him for 72 hours.

  'Is his lawyer here yet? Good. Let's go.' He wanted another officer watching from the one-way mirror to see if their opinions matched.

  'Afternoon, Mr Duvall.' The politeness was for the lawyer, not the suspect.

  'I'm Theodore Leigh, and I represent Mr Duvall.' The portly lawyer rose, extending a pudgy hand to Morton. Morton waved it away. Leigh did not look like a typical defence solicitor. He was too well-dressed, even wearing a waistcoat. All that was missing was a pocket watch, and then Morton would have sworn on record that he had been transported back in time.

  'Detective Chief Inspector David Morton. For the benefit of the tape, have you had time to counsel your client?'

  'I have.' Leigh had been given thirty minutes' grace before both lawyer and client were hauled into the interview suite.

  'Mr Duvall. Where were you on Tuesday afternoon?'

  Duvall's face dropped. He thought he was in on simple drug possession charges, and had suddenly realised the extent of the trouble he was in.

  'Can't remember.'

  'That's unfortunate. Mr Leigh, have you explained to your client that the courts can draw an adverse inference from Mr Duvall's non-cooperation?' The question was intended to stick the needles in Duvall, but he sat there looking smug, the panic of the previous moment shuttered down behind glassy eyes as if someone had flipped a switch.

  When he got no response, Morton continued.

  'Were you at the car park of Greagor, Gershwin and Hopkins LLP on Tuesday afternoon?'

  Duvall didn't dare lie directly. He simply shrugged, a slight glare thrown in the inspector's direction.

  'Silence won't help you, Mr Duvall. We have blood evidence that links you to the scene.' The tests hadn't come back yet, but the police were allowed to lie to a suspect. He was pushing the limits of his ethical obligations, but he squared the white lie with his conscience with ease. It wasn't even a fallacy anyway, as the results were bound to come back positive.

  Duvall's face paled, and he turned to whisper to his lawyer. It was the lawyer who spoke next.

  'He wants to cut a deal.' The lawyer confirmed Morton's suspicions, forcing him to conceal a thin smile.

  'Deal? He killed someone in cold blood.'

  'That may be true, but there's more to it than that.'

  'In what way?'

  'He was put up to it. You want the big boss, not the little guy.'

  'Interview terminated. 16:32. I need to speak to the prosecutor. If he agrees to a deal, I'll listen to what you've got to say. If it's no good, your client is going down for murder.'

  'Fine with us,' Duvall said in a confident voice.

  Morton left, wondering what the hell he had just stumbled into.

  ***

  'The lab report came back in a rush. DNA confirmed that Anthony Duvall was involved in the altercation with Yosef Gershwin.'

  'Then why are you asking me to cut a deal?' Kiaran O'Connor looked perplexed. He had known David Morton for years. Not once had he suggested a deal.

  'I don't want to. I want this guy bang to rights.'

  'Best I can do for him is manslaughter anyway, conditional on a guilty plea. The judge can still send him down for life.'

  'I don't like this.' Morton switched sides, knowing that he could let the lawyer back himself into a corner. It was a technique he had perfected on suspects.

  'Let's offer the deal, and see what he has to say.'

  'Fine.'

  Kiaran went into the interview suite first. It was no longer solely a police interrogation.

  'Mr Duvall, I am willing to drop the charge to constructive-act manslaughter if and only if the information you provide is sufficiently valuable. I will decide that in my sole discretion.'

  'That don't seem fair. You deciding, that is.'

  'It's what I'm offering.' The lawyer entrenched his position.

  'Naw. He decides.' Duvall gestured at Morton.

  No one looked more surprised than Duvall's lawyer. Leigh almost sputtered as he took a sip of his water.

  Morton shrugged.

  'Let's hear it then.'

  'That Gershwin guy stiffed me. He agreed to kill someone for m
e, and in return I was going to kill for him. Only he didn't do it, kept making excuses.'

  'You move in different social circles. How'd you find him?' Morton 's tone was sceptical. It was only curiosity driving him; he didn't think there was any deal in this, yet.

  'On the Internet.'

  'We searched his computer, and didn't find anything.'

  Duvall should have looked crestfallen, but instead he became even more smug.

  'That's cause we used a darknet, didn't we?'

  'You what?'

  'A private network. Heard about 'em in prison. It's not on Google or anything, you just connect port-to-port.'

  Morton was in over his head. The terms meant nothing. Thankfully Kiaran was more up-to-date. 'So you used an anonymous group to find each other?'

  'Yeah, it's like a newsgroup, man. I use it for dealing weed.' That explained what he was flushing. With a class C substance, it was hardly worth bringing him in for just the drugs.

  'Onion routing?'

  'Yeah, man. All peer-to-peer stuff. We connected through Tor.' He named a common program for concealing his Internet presence.

  'How'd you modify it?'

  'Some white dude over the Silicon roundabout fixed us up. Said something about adding more latency to the darknet. Meant we couldn't be monitored, anyway. I don't know exactly how it works.'

  'Can you show us?'

  'Does this mean I've got a deal?'

  'If we bust this network wide open, then yes, you've got your deal.'

  CHAPTER 56: DARKNET

  The dark web wasn't something Morton readily understood. The idea of swapping murders on the Internet was anathema to traditional policing, and was unlike anything he had come across in his three decades with the Met.

  Still, he logged on quickly enough, and found Yosef's message in Ant's inbox. It occurred to Morton that while it wasn't the perfect crime, it might well be the perfect defence. Without prosecution knowledge of the murder swap plan it easily gave rise to reasonable doubt. A half-decent defence lawyer would have a field day pointing the finger at everyone else in sight.

  Morton wondered how Yosef knew about the darknet, and what else he might have used it for. Ant's messages were less than subtle. Punks scoring weed online was nothing new, but Gershwin was a respected architect, not a petty thief.