The DCI Morton Box Set

by Sean Campbell

  When he entered the gym he realised that there was a remote chance that a paper trail could come back to bite him. Barry bought a gift certificate for one month's membership, waited until the girl who sold him it went off shift, and redeemed it himself under an alias. That way he neatly avoided needing to sign up to a minimum twelve-month contract, and without his real name it would be difficult to track him via the gym.

  ***

  The relatives hadn't turned up anything. No one admitted to knowing the suspect from the e-fit, and none of the relatives the uniforms saw when interviewing the rape victims met the description. It could be the work of a phenomenal poker face in play, but it seemed that the vigilante angle was a dead end.

  A broad canvass of the streets had turned up a witness, but he might be unreliable. When the canvassing officer, Bertram Ayala, met him, the witness reeked of marijuana.

  Normally Ayala would have him straight in for possession, but if he could be a lead in the stabbing case then the greater good demanded that Ayala stay his handcuffs – this time.

  Ayala paged Morton, who drove straight down to Brixton to interview the potential witness in person. He had with him six e-fits, of which only one was the e-fit of the killer. Morton needed to know whether or not the witness was reliable. He might be called upon to testify, and as a traditional line-up was not possible without the suspect in custody, Morton chose to proceed with an e-fit line-up.

  He needn't have worried. The young man identified the correct e-fit at once.

  'That's him, blud. Skinny li'l white dude. Big blue eyes. He legged it, like he was in a hurry.'

  'Which way did he go?'

  'He stopped at the bus stop, didn't he? Heading north towards Liverpool Street.'

  All London buses had CCTV installed, so if this was true the man could be tracked further, which might help to ID him.

  'You remember anything else?'

  'Naw. You gonna spare me an Adam Smith?'

  It was a reference to the twenty note printed with the likeness of the famous Scottish economist. Morton was impressed the young man knew who he was. He decided that it was a small price to pay to catch a killer.

  'Here. I'll throw in a tip for free. Ditch the weed.'

  Chapter 18: Déjà Death

  The second kill was proving to be more difficult than the first, and Barry was desperate. The target didn't have any discernible pattern to her movements, and each time he tried to follow her by leaving the gym he had to get his bag from the locker before he could pursue her. By then she was long gone. Clearly the gym-based surveillance wasn't the smartest idea Barry had ever had.

  He debated simply knocking on the door and shooting her, but the sound would resonate in the alleyway, and it would be impossible to get away unseen. It was also far too similar to his first hit, and that would get him caught.

  He eventually decided to follow her, no gun, and make small talk in the laundrette she used down the street. He needed to get her somewhere quiet before he could take her out, so his aim was to set up a meeting at another time when it would be easier to conceal the gun.

  The target seemed pleasant enough, and Barry wondered again what she had done to deserve death. She was shy and retiring, and was slow to come out of her shell. Barry needed an opening to get her talking, and then he could find out where she went when she left the house.

  Eventually, he feigned a lack of soap and asked to borrow a cup. She nodded, and gestured at the powder sitting on top of the machine that would be hers for the next hour.

  It wasn't much of an opener, and Barry resorted to asking her about the film magazine she was reading half an hour later.

  'I don't know why everyone likes that movie,' he ventured when he saw a slight frown on her face while reading.

  'I know! It's so predictable. The killer is obvious in the first five minutes.'

  'The book was way better anyway. I hate being told what characters look like after I've built them up in my imagination.'

  'Me too.' She became animated, and Barry knew he was in.

  'I'm Larry,' Barry said, extending his hand. Lying under pressure was not one of his strong points.

  'Vanhi.'

  'I just moved into the area. Care to show me around?' Barry winked in what he hoped was a salacious manner.

  'Err. Sorry, I'm busy.' Vanhi turned away, picking the magazine back up to shield herself from the awkwardness of the conversation.

  Strikeout. Barry had overdone it, and he would have to try again another time.

  ***

  Barry tried the laundrette again the following week. Same time of day, same day of the week, and there she was sitting doing her laundry like clockwork.

  He needed to play it cool. She hadn't responded to his sexual advances, and he knew he'd need to try a more platonic approach to get her to open up.

  'Remembered my soap powder this time.' Barry indicated his box as he took a seat nearby and flicked open a magazine.

  When she didn't respond Barry decided to give her a few moments. If he pushed too hard, she would clam up and he'd never get anything out of her.

  'You got change for a five? Seems the machine doesn't like my pound coin.' It was plausible. He had seen a television show on Channel 4 once that said almost a quarter of all pound coins in London were counterfeit.

  'Sure. Here you go.' There was the hint of a smile as she passed him the coins. He hoped it was amusement at his misfortune – he could work with that.

  He feigned trying another coin.

  'Damn it! This one doesn't work either.'

  Vanhi began to giggle. The poor man was having no luck that evening.

  'Not your night, is it?'

  'Naw, nothing's gone right for me since I moved to London.'

  'Where you from then?'

  'Kent.'

  'Nice part of the country.'

  'Yeah, and much easier to find my way around. With mostly fields around, the houses stick out more,' Barry joked.

  'Well, if you're still having trouble finding your feet, I can show you the sights, such as they are.'

  'Really? That would be awesome, though knowing my luck, I'd probably get mugged.' Barry decided to play up the hapless loser; that persona would lower her defences and get her talking.

  'Ha-ha, I promise not to mug you. You ever been to the One Eyed Dog?'

  'Nope. Pub?'

  'Yup. I work there.'

  With that, Barry knew where she would die. He would get to know her shift pattern, and shoot her at closing. The only witnesses would be too drunk to remember a thing.

  ***

  Morton's witness was right. The suspect who ditched the bag did board the 133 bus. CCTV showed that he boarded the bus at the Brixton Road stop, then rode all the way to Liverpool Street Station before heading for the underground. From there, he took a train north. Morton had ordered Ayala to follow the suspect on the CCTV footage at subsequent stations. Once Ayala had the suspect's home location down, Morton would take the e-fit out and show it around. Hopefully it would get a hit.

  ***

  Vanhi worked most nights, but only Tuesday was really quiet enough for Barry to take his shot. He would be seen, that much was guaranteed. Barry had slowly become a regular late-night drinker in the area, and he would keep up that pretence after the kill to avoid arousing suspicion.

  The gun was secured inside his overcoat. It was the thick padded kind, as only that could conceal the lumps and bumps of the shotgun. At least the weather was cold, so it didn't look out of place. The cold was also a great excuse for wearing gloves. It made the gun cumbersome, and Barry would have to ditch them after pulling the trigger as they would be covered in gunshot residue, a dead giveaway if the police pulled him for being in the area; but it avoided Barry's risking exposure by fingerprint.

  At closing time on Tuesday night, two 'clock in the morning, Barry leant against the wall in the alley adjacent to the pub.

  He held a lit cigarette in one hand and a bottle of cola in
the other. He didn't normally smoke, but it was good camouflage. He avoided talking to other customers by pretending to be outrageously drunk.

  The truth was that no alcohol had passed his lips that evening. Each of the shots he had bought was carefully tipped down his shirt to make him smell of alcohol. He'd even gargled a double vodka so that his breath matched the rest of his persona.

  The Coca-Cola was multi-purpose. Barry did enjoy drinking it, but it was primarily a plastic silencer to reduce the number of people who would hear the shot. It wouldn't do much – Barry planned to fire a shotgun in an enclosed alleyway – but, with a bit of luck, any witnesses would mistake the sound for a car backfiring.

  At around ten past two Vanhi emerged, and saw Barry. She smiled, and asked to borrow a cigarette. Vanhi smoked prolifically, and Barry knew this from his weeks watching her. She lit up and leant against the fence.

  She was about to engage him in conversation when her phone rang. She turned away from Barry to answer it. No one had actually called her. It was Barry hitting redial on the phone in his pocket.

  As she lifted the handset to her ear, Barry lifted his shotgun, spread his legs in anticipation of the recoil, then slipped the empty Coke bottle over the barrel and ended the call. She began to turn as Barry raised the gun but didn't have time to react. With one fluid motion, Barry flicked the gun to a horizontal position and unloaded one shot into the side of Vanhi's head. The sound felt deafening to Barry, and he nearly legged it down the street to get away.

  There was no time to conceal the weapon and dump it in the Thames as he had originally planned. Adrenaline flooded through him, and he ripped the gloves off, tossing them, the gun and the bottle against the fence. He nudged Vanhi's body on top of the gun to cover it up, and threw the bin bags over her body loosely, before striding off into the night. It was done.

  Chapter 19: Worry

  Vanhi hadn't come home, and Jaison was worried. He'd been her boyfriend for four years, and they'd lived together for two. Not once had she ever been late home from work. He wanted to call the police, but something was stopping him.

  Jaison was an illegal. He'd arrived in the UK properly, but that had been on a student visa and Jaison had now outstayed his welcome by over two years. His heart was torn in two. On the one hand he was sure something had happened to Vanhi. On the other hand he would almost certainly find himself on the first plane back to India if he went to the authorities.

  Jaison knew that they would never disregard the overstay. Many of his friends had been caught, and every time they had been deported. Unless he married a British citizen he would never gain leave to remain in the United Kingdom.

  Jaison dithered, phone in hand as he tried to decide what to do. If he got deported he'd never see her again, and he had no one to go back to in Mumbai, but if something happened to her because he didn't call he'd never forgive himself.

  He decided to wait twenty-four hours, and then make his decision.

  ***

  'Damn it, those bloody kids have done it again,' Lucas Johnson, landlord at the One Eyed Dog, spoke aloud to no one in particular. He was alone in the alleyway, save for his trusty German shepherd, Scruffy. The kids loved to play games with Lucas. They knew he couldn't see, and found it highly amusing when he tripped over his own rubbish bags. Sometimes they emptied the bags, or moved the recycling bins around the corner.

  Once they had even broken into his wife's car only to put it in neutral and leave it one block north. They hadn't even hotwired it, so it must have taken quite a while to manually push that far.

  This time, it was the bins again. Rubbish bags had been flung all over, a row of them scattered up against the fence dividing the One Eyed Dog from the flat block next door.

  Out of the blue, Scruffy began to bark.

  'What is it, boy?' Lucas moved closer to the mutt, nudging the bag with his toe. He leant down to feel what the dog was barking at, then realised that he was touching flesh.

  Lucas almost screamed. It was human, and it wasn't moving. He quickly grabbed the dog's collar and dragged him inside. 'Vera!' he shouted, calling for his wife. 'Call the police.'

  Fifteen minutes later, Detective Chief Inspector David Morton stepped out of his car. He was in a suit, as he had been set to appear on television that morning to publicise the Metropolitan Police's ten most wanted list.

  His polished shoes gleamed, reflecting the early morning sunshine as he strode towards the body. A uniform had already taped off the scene. He slipped plastic covers over his designer shoes, and ducked under the tape.

  She was a young woman, in her late twenties or early thirties, and of Asian descent. Rigor had set in but had not begun to wear off, putting time of death at six to eight hours ago.

  As Morton inspected the scene, the pathologist rolled over the body to inspect the exit wound.

  'Well, I was going to suggest shotgun as possible cause of death, but this confirms it.' The pathologist gestured at a sawn-off shotgun tucked underneath the body, nestled among the rubbish.

  'Well, that's not legal.' Morton's sense of humour often missed the mark.

  Morton donned a glove, and picked up the weapon gingerly. There were no visible prints, and the serial number had been ground down. An acid wash might bring out the original etching.

  As Morton inspected the body, crime scene techs began taking samples for particulate analysis, as well as dusting for fingerprints.

  A camera flashed as the in situ photographs of the scene were taken. The Met still used film SLRs to capture crime scenes, as digital photographs were more open to digital manipulation.

  Morton was unconcerned with the physical evidence for the moment. His job was not to collect or process that evidence, but to analyse it later on. He went inside the One Eyed Dog to find the landlord.

  ***

  'You told my officer that you knew the deceased.' It was a statement, not a question. Morton was old school in his interviewing technique, and liked to establish that he was in control of the conversation early on.

  'Yes. The lassie had been working for me. Good barmaid, popular with the punters. Name of Vanhi Deepak.' Lucas spoke with a trace of a Scottish accent. His voice was slow and even. Morton imagined he was a tremendous barman; his mannerisms gave rise to trust and confidence.

  'How long had she been working here?'

  'A few years. I don't recall the exact date. I can check if you want.' Lucas was sipping a warm cup of sweet tea, no doubt prepared by his doting wife to help him deal with the shock.

  'Did she have any problems with punters last night?'

  'Nae, it was mostly a quiet night. Not a fight all evening.' Caledonian Road was known for being home to many disorderly establishments. The One Eyed Dog was surprisingly genteel for the area.

  'You got an address?' Morton hoped her home might give clues as to who would want her dead, unless it was a random killing – which wasn't unheard of, not on the Caledonian Road.

  ***

  Morton decided to carry out the search of Vanhi Deepak's flat himself. He could have sent Ayala to conduct the search, but years of experience meant he spotted things that more junior officers missed. It wasn't a big flat, but waitressing had never paid well and central London was excessively expensive.

  He didn't know if the flat was shared, so he knocked before using the key he had obtained from her landlady. A young Indian man answered wearing old-fashioned flannel pyjamas. He looked tired, as if he hadn't slept well. Morton wondered if the rings under his eyes were the product of a guilty conscience.

  'Detective Chief Inspector David Morton, Metropolitan Police. May I come in?'

  Without waiting for an answer David moved towards the door, forcing the young man to retreat through the nearest doorway to the safety of the sitting room.

  'I'm here regarding Ms Vanhi Deepak,' Morton announced once they were both sitting down.

  The younger man simply looked at him without saying anything, and Morton took the opportunity to visually s
weep the room. On the mantelpiece were a number of photographs of the victim. Several of them featured her with the young man sitting opposite him; they were clearly a couple.

  'What's your name?' Morton asked.

  'Jaison.'

  'Do you live here?'

  'Yes.'

  With that formality out of the way, Morton handed him a copy of the search warrant authorising him to look around the apartment of the deceased.

  He watched Jaison read it. His eyes appeared to gloss over as he read. It appeared his English was not up to dealing with legal jargon.

  'How long have you been in England, Jaison?' He watched the younger man closely as he asked. Facial expressions often gave away far more than the verbal answer.

  'Not long.' Jaison tried to be vague and obscure the truth, but no police officer was going to buy it.

  'I'm not from immigration, Jaison.'

  'Four years. I've lived here with Vanhi for two.' The shy witness was beginning to relax. He may have had something to hide, but it was his immigration status rather than having killed someone.

  'You're a couple.'

  'Yes. I love her.'

  'I'm sorry to inform you that Miss Deepak's body was found this morning outside the One Eyed Dog.' Informing the families of the dead was every policeman's worst duty, one any of them would avoid if they could so choose. Morton had been duty-bound to break the news to families dozens of times over the years, and it never got any easier.

  As most relatives did, Jaison broke down immediately. Tears began to stream from his hazel eyes, his head sank, and he would not meet Morton's gaze. Now was not the time for mourning however.

  'We didn't find a purse or a key on her. Was she in the habit of carrying one?' The absence of any valuables on her person could indicate robbery was a motive.