The DCI Morton Box Set

by Sean Campbell

  Ant wasn't all that busy; his dissertation was mostly done, as he had spent the summer working on it, and it was worth a third of his final year's mark. It seemed odd that the final year only had eight hours a week timetabled, but Ant wasn't complaining.

  He'd rearranged his Thursday and Friday seminars to earlier in the week, and Jake gave him first class train tickets up to Liverpool.

  Ant's instructions were straightforward enough: meet Diane, the girl who had Jake's present, in the city centre a couple of minutes away from Liverpool Lime Street. Give her the money, get the parcel, and bring it back.

  As he had Friday off he'd chosen to book into a hotel and come back the next day. There was no point rushing back; he didn't know many people in Portsmouth so he wouldn't be missing out on a social life.

  The handover had taken place in his hotel bar. A gorgeous leggy brunette had walked in and introduced herself as Diane.

  'Hey, hun, you the guy Jake sent up?' It wasn't a Liverpudlian accent.

  Ant nodded.

  'You got my money, babe?' she whispered.

  Anthony slid over the banker's draft that Jake had given him. He had said it was an antique for his mother's birthday, a rare piece of pottery for her collection. Sure enough the parcel he was given did appear to be pottery, but it didn't look like anything special to him. Then again, who was he to give an opinion on what was and wasn't tasteful? Pottery wasn't his thing.

  Anthony didn't bother inspecting the goods. He had already been paid, and he wouldn't know what to look for even if he tried. He therefore missed the false bottom covered with a fresh layer of new clay.

  Diane didn't stay long, and Ant was left to wander before returning to his room at the hotel. In the morning he wished he hadn't bothered. A bachelorette party had occurred in the main bar, and stayed on in the hotel late bar. It had been impossible to get a good night's sleep, and the half-cold cooked breakfast hadn't been worth the price of admission either.

  At least the return journey gave him time to read through his seminar material for the following week, even if the swinging Pendolino trains did make him feel vaguely nauseous.

  It was on his return home that the difficulty began. He tried to find Jake to deliver the goods, but he was nowhere to be found. He had skipped teaching his Global Political Economy class that afternoon, and the blinds were drawn on his Victorian home in Southsea when Ant tried to deliver the goods there.

  Reluctantly Ant gave up and took the goods home, intending to bring them to the university on the following Monday. They never made it. At five o’clock the next morning the police burst through the front door, smashing it to splinters to get in. The pottery was seized, and Anthony frogmarched to the station. He was barely given time to throw on jeans and a t-shirt before he found himself up before a judge. He tried to protest his innocence, but the jury was having none of it. There was almost £100,000 pounds of heroin sealed inside the base of the pottery.

  Anthony was sentenced to four years inside, and served nearly three before being granted parole. The young man sent down that fateful day was not the man who emerged three years later from HM Prison Dorchester. Gone was the youthful exuberance, replaced by a tattooed punk who had spent three hellish years enduring prison food, regular fights with other inmates and worse. The honest and helpful undergraduate soon became a world-weary convict aged beyond his years. He went in young and healthy, but came out psychologically scarred and HIV positive. His life would never be the same again.

  ***

  Morton had to wait to get his CCTV footage. Lambeth Co-Operative Council had to be subpoenaed before they released the footage they had of the area, and Lambeth only had control of part of Brixton's CCTV coverage.

  London is plastered with CCTV cameras but they're not linked to one big system, so for every camera, Morton had to ask someone new for the footage.

  There was some suggestion from the Mayor's office that the CCTV would eventually be put onto a central system, which would save money and make Morton's job easier, but it hadn't happened yet.

  Raeburn Street, the victim's road, wasn't covered by CCTV, but the roads it bisected were, so all those passing through were caught by the council's surveillance at one end or the other. It was a necessary evil in Brixton as crime was rife, especially among the gangs in the area.

  Only a few dozen individuals were seen leaving the area after the estimated time of death. That gave a window of around six hours to look through, and that job fell to an unlucky uniformed officer. He found only one suspicious individual, and immediately paged Detective Chief Inspector Morton.

  'Sir, we've got one individual who appears to change clothes between entering and exiting the road. He could be a resident but he wasn't among the neighbours we canvassed going door-to-door.'

  Morton thought it over for a moment. The killer could be a resident, in which case he should show up on footage from the previous week.

  'Run a scan for him on the previous couple of days. If he's a resident it's almost certain he would be coming and going regularly.'

  'Already done, sir. Nothing flagged up. It isn't a great angle though. He kept his head down as he passed the CCTV. Looks like he knew there were cameras about.'

  'He's white. Not a huge number of white guys that wander alone in Brixton in the evening. Can we trace where he went after he left Raeburn Street?' Morton figured the suspect would slip up and show his face at some point.

  'I've got him, sir. We can see him heading south to the A2217. He disappears off CCTV there, in a blind spot between Concanon Road and Trinity Gardens. Traffic might have something though, if anyone got flashed for speeding as he went past?'

  'It's a long shot. Worth checking, though. Hang on, freeze on the Concanon/A2217 camera.'

  It was angled down above a row of shops, but caught the corner on film neatly.

  'Aha! The bag disappeared somewhere between Raebarn Court and the A road. We might just have found the dump spot for our murder weapon. Good work, lads.'

  Chapter 16: Weak Links

  Although her victim was now dead, Vanhi was still a weak link. If she got caught, Edwin knew she would turn on him in no time if it would save her from a life sentence in jail. While plea bargaining wasn't officially encouraged or sanctioned, it did happen in practice.

  The prosecutor in charge would simply reduce the charge to manslaughter; Vanhi would turn Queen's Evidence.

  If Edwin could eliminate Vanhi, he could massively reduce his exposure. Her death would end any investigation into Eleanor's death as well as removing the only darknet contact that had enough information to work out who he was.

  He couldn't kill her himself, of course. That would be counterproductive. Instead he settled on a new course of action. He would demand two kills from the man who called himself Barry. He wanted his ex-girlfriend and her new lover dead. It was only fair. If Barry wanted two kills, then Edwin wanted two kills. He'd still never follow through, but Barry didn't know that.

  'If you want two. I want two. Will advise on who second is if this is acceptable.'

  He knew the other man would be fuming when he read it, but he could hardly complain to the police. Without Edwin's identity he couldn't exact his revenge personally either. Worst case scenario, Edwin was no worse off than he was before he sent the message.

  ***

  The bag turned up, but not before the lab techs from Forensics had to climb into a rubbish bin. It seemed the suspect had been smart enough to head south past the A2217 towards the council flats before he dumped the bag in a huge communal bin. There were CCTV cameras on the apartment building, but they were all just for show. The council maintained that the perception of CCTV was just as effective as real CCTV but at five percent of the cost. Unsurprisingly Morton didn't agree.

  'Paper-pushing morons. I'd like to see them catch a criminal.' The bin was ripe with food, a testament to the failure of the then-Labour government's biweekly bin collection program. It certainly wouldn't help the lab when it c
ame to particulate analysis, and it could create reasonable defence in the hands of a vaguely competent criminal defence barrister.

  The contents were untouched though, and the clothes inside were soaked in blood. It would almost certainly be just the victim's blood, but there was an off chance that the aggressor nicked himself with the blade and left a little piece of himself behind. Even a partial fingerprint would do; Morton just needed something to go on. He gestured at a constable. 'Get this bagged, tagged and back to the lab. Now.' He was in no mood for pleasantries.

  ***

  The bag didn't reveal any major surprises. There were no fingerprints anywhere on or inside the bag, which suggested the killer may have worn gloves. The only blood to be found was the victim's, and the clothes were distinctly disposable. They were the generic mass-produced clothes that can be bought in any supermarket.

  There was one ray of hope, a small hair trapped underneath the strap on the backpack. It didn't have a follicular tag attached, so DNA was a no-go on this occasion. The hair could be compared manually though, should a sample from a suspect be obtained. It also suggested that the killer had light brown hair. This was compiled with other data from the CCTV to produce an e-fit image of what the man could look like. It was guesswork at best, as there were no direct profiles of his face on CCTV, but by combining the angles it was possible for an educated guess to be made.

  He was Caucasian so the ratios on distance between the eyes, the size and breadth of the nose, as well as the jaw line shape, could be predicted with some accuracy. His height and build were visually discernible, and combined with the knowledge of his real hair colour a profile was beginning to take shape.

  The e-fit would be flashed around the area, and hopefully someone would have seen him.

  ***

  'Not happy. You should have asked upfront.'

  Despite his protests Barry knew that two for two was a fair deal. It wasn't too fair to find it out halfway through the deal, but he had little choice. He wouldn't get what he wanted from the deal if he didn't hold up his end and carry out two hits. The first had been much easier than he thought it would be. He was already in it up to his neck. Two life sentences is still life. Barry had nothing to lose, but a hell of a lot to gain.

  He soon capitulated.

  ***

  Once Edwin had convinced Barry to do a second hit, he had to work out who the target was. He had nothing from her except a brief message telling him not to carry out the kill she'd asked for in the vicinity of the Caledonian Road.

  Edwin also had the photo of Emanuel, the victim. He clicked on his downloads folder, and brought up the image which showed a photograph being held by hands with painted fingernails. Definitely a woman then. I thought as much. And in the background – what does that neon sign say?

  Edwin brought up an image enhancement program, and clicked 'interpolate', which caused the computer to try and guess at the detail by adding new pixels between the blurry image regions based on the colour change. It wasn't a great picture, but it did reveal two things. The neon sign was for a fish and chip shop across the street. The sign read '"Oh My Cod!"'

  Edwin laughed, then brought up Google. Oh My Cod! was halfway along the Caledonian Road. Edwin clicked to bring up a street-view map of the road, and looked at the apartment opposite.

  The flat from the webcam picture had to be one floor up, based on the angle of the sign. There were only two flats in that building that were on the first floor, and faced the road. That narrowed it down a bit.

  Another trip to the world's most famous search engine brought up Electoral Roll records for the two flats. Only one had a woman living there, Vanhi Deepak, age twenty-seven. Edwin smirked again. It was almost too easy.

  He typed out a message to Barry with the details, and then added 'Change your modus operandi. Don't use the knife again. Get it done.'

  Chapter 17: Data Trail

  If he couldn't use a knife again, then a gun was Barry's second choice. But getting a gun in the UK isn't easy. He could legally apply for, and probably get, a Firearm Certificate. They weren't too hard to come by, but the police would want to fingerprint him as well as inspect his gun cabinet to make sure it was up to par. He'd also have to wait a while, and even then if he used it the police would trace it straight back to him.

  That left him two options as he saw it, if he wanted to shoot Vanhi. Number one was to buy a lawful gun such as an air rifle and then modify it to fire lethal pellets. It wasn't a bad plan, but it would still leave a wide paper trail for the police to follow.

  Behind door number two was the idea of acquiring an illegal gun. Barry thought this was essentially two sub-options, namely getting an otherwise legal gun illegally or getting a completely illegal gun.

  The former could be as simple as buying a licensed firearm from someone else, or stealing it. Farmers, ex-military personnel and the police are allowed some weapons. The problem was they would almost certainly ask questions, as well as remember who they sold the gun to.

  The latter option meant finding someone willing to sell a gun, no questions asked, and to conveniently forget where it went should they ever be found. Barry decided this approach was much safer, and started his search by simply asking for one on the same darknet he had made his murder swap deal.

  ***

  Morton was at a loss on the Brixton stabbing. The victim lived alone, and had no friends or family. He was on narcotics' radar, but his dealing was low-level. He was one of thousands of petty criminals in London, and didn't have anything in his record to suggest anyone would want to kill him. He'd lived in Brixton for five years. Morton knew that much from council records, as the man claimed single person reduction for his council tax. Before that, there was nothing at all to suggest who he was.

  It wasn't even the only unsolved murder on Morton's desk. He had overseen dozens of investigations during his career, and this was one of only three times he'd been truly stumped. It was almost as if members of the public were randomly killing each other in elaborate ways without leaving any evidence, and without there being any apparent motive.

  The other detectives were starting to talk. Morton knew they couldn't do any better given the evidence on the table, but it didn't quell the rumours he was getting old and would soon be heading for retirement. If he didn't crack at least one of these cases soon then it might be the final bell tolling on his career. It would be an unglamorous way to go out, but he'd have his pension intact, and he'd be secure in the knowledge he did his best for several decades of service. That wouldn't make it any easier to look his colleagues in the eye at the retirement party however, and Morton would sooner forgo his pension than his reputation.

  ***

  It hadn't taken long to get a nibble on the darknet. Barry's instinct had been right. The darknet was a world where anything goes. His seller wasn't strictly in London, but they met in Guilford. The weapon was concealed inside a guitar case, and cost Barry five hundred pounds in cash. Barry had to empty the slush fund under his bed, but that money bought him a double-barrelled sawn-off shotgun. It was old, and could do with a spot of polish, but Barry was sure it would work. It was bound to be loud, but there was no escaping that.

  Barry also bought one box of ammo – twenty-four shells – with the gun, for an extra twenty pounds. He probably wouldn't need a whole box, but it wouldn't hurt. He'd ditch both the gun and the ammo in the Thames after the hit. It was twelve-bore ammo, the most common kind, so it wouldn't attract too much attention should it be found, and the ammo wasn't illegal anyway, just the gun.

  Barry's second task was to home in on his victim. He knew she lived across from a chip shop, and he found her place easily enough. He loitered in a nearby coffee shop, and tried to keep an eye on her comings and goings, to work out when and where the hit would go down.

  ***

  Morton was beginning to make progress investigating the Brixton stabbing. The victim, Emanuel Richard, was in the system, having been arrested a number of times fo
r rape and sexual assault. None of the charges had stuck, but if the accusations were true, it could explain motive.

  The conviction rate in rape cases was notoriously low, often hinging on a ‘he said, she said’ case with the defendant claiming that the sex was consensual.

  Sometimes witnesses were reluctant to testify for fear of being victimised again on the stand. That was often more than enough to give rise to reasonable doubt, and so Mr Richard walked free each time.

  Morton wondered if his death was the result of vigilante justice. It could give him a lead, but could just as easily be a red herring. There were a huge number of victims that might want to see him dead, and Morton suspected that more might exist that never found the strength of conviction to come forward.

  The slight hole in the theory was the statistic that over eighty-five percent of violent stabbings were committed by men, and as far as Morton knew, Emanuel Richard did not swing that way. It was possible of course, but considering the number of victims it was unlikely.

  'Men often hide it out of shame. They don't want to be seen as the victim of rape.' Morton's colleague, Linda had read his mind. She was often the voice of reason in the squad room despite her relative youth. She was, at forty, an experienced detective but Morton considered her a relative newcomer nonetheless. He was demanding that way.

  'I agree, but it's more likely that a brother or father of a victim would carry out a vigilante hit. We've got an e-fit, so let's see if it matches up with anyone connected to the known victims.'

  ***

  The south end of the Caledonian Road attracted a reasonable amount of foot traffic. Barry couldn't simply loiter, or he would be noticed. There wasn't a convenient cafe to sit in and watch the property, so Barry was forced to improvise. Across the street, above and to the right of the chip shop, was the Regal Fitness Centre and Gym. On the fourth floor a number of treadmills gave a clean view across the street towards his target's apartment building. The front door was off to the side, with an alleyway leading towards the bins at the rear of the property, and Caledonian Road at the front. Barry decided to take out membership at the gym and use it as an opportunity to spy on the property and its occupant.