Vanhi had to avoid the CCTV in the area. In the west the superintendent's office would provide some coverage, while at the east end of the park the Pump House and the park toilets were both monitored. Fortunately Eleanor was not prone to sticking to the busy pedestrian paths, preferring the freedom of a cross-country run. Her return loop would take her past Fountain Lake in the north-west of the park. Vanhi would pretend to sit and enjoy the view while doing her make-up. In reality she would be using the mirror in her make-up case to watch what was going on behind her as well as monitoring everything in front of her. Vanhi had a week to carry out the hit, so she would sit on the same bench each morning waiting for Eleanor to jog past, and only carry out the hit if the coast was clear. If anyone was nearby and likely to render medical assistance, or worse, see what happened, she would abort and wait for the next day to try again.
***
It had been a fantastic break. Edwin had imbibed the culture of Vancouver, playing tourist as well as enjoying the hotel's pool facilities. He could see himself living in Vancouver permanently. It was a beautiful city with plenty of amenities, and the people were as friendly and polite as the stereotypes suggested. Edwin found himself reluctant to leave, and it was with a heavy heart that he left his hotel suite to head back to London’s squalor. Edwin wondered if the hit had occurred yet. He had deliberately left his mobile back in London, and had not left his hotel contact details with anyone. There was no one for him to leave them to. His work friends were no more, as was his marriage, and he had long since neglected his university compatriots.
Getting through airport security was painless, though Edwin made sure to keep his belt on as he went through the metal detectors. He wanted to be remembered, just in case.
The flight was equally uneventful. He made a pass at one of the air hostesses, but was shot down in a delightfully polite manner.
Edwin spent most of the nine hours fifteen minutes working out how to minimise the chances of the police catching him. He would have to go to her funeral of course. It would be noticed if he didn't. He might even have to give a eulogy. At the least he'd have to look after Chelsea through the service and the wake.
He'd also have to be careful with the insurance. Fortunately it was an older policy taken out just after he and Eleanor married, so it wouldn't flag any suspicion for being recent. He would have to leave it in a drawer for a while; he mustn't been seen as too eager to claim, otherwise the police would never stop pursuing him. Edwin would simply have to play the aggrieved husband. They were having some troubles, but who wasn't? He and Eleanor had argued before, and they'd always worked it out. He was hopeful that this time would have been no different. He would move back into the townhouse of course; it simply wouldn't do to uproot Chelsea after all she had been through.
Edwin dropped off to sleep over Greenland as these thoughts gambolled through his brain. A slight smile was painted on his aristocratic features.
CHAPTER 6: JOGGING IS MURDER
Vanhi knew London was a hotbed for closed circuit television. Years of prostitution and drugs had taught her to avoid the bright lights of touristville, and to hide in a crowd when she could.
She was still reluctant to be caught on CCTV on the tube network. Her apartment was above a chip shop in Caledonian Road. She could walk to Battersea Park, but it was almost six miles going straight there, and Vanhi wanted to take a more circumspect route.
Vanhi's route took her on foot to Camden Town tube station. It was on the Northern line, the busiest commuter line on the underground. Vanhi knew she could easily be lost among the foot traffic. She took a train south to Stockwell before doubling back to Oval. To any observer it would look like she had simply missed her stop and gone one station too far.
In reality it let Vanhi know she was not being followed. She didn't expect to be, but few paranoid criminals ever wound up in prison.
From there it was less than half an hour on foot to Battersea Park. As she made her way there Vanhi observed a discernible lack of CCTV near the disused Battersea power station, as well as noticing that New Convent Garden Market was bustling with business, even at this early hour.
By half-past seven she was seated on a bench overlooking Fountain Lake. She sat with a paperback for a while, occasionally glancing at her mobile phone.
The mobile, like the paperback, had been bought just for the occasion. It was an old phone, and wouldn't attract any attention. The SIM card was a pay-as-you-go edition bought in a corner shop. She could have got one for free online, but this way she remained anonymous. She didn't need the phone to communicate, but by pretending to be sending text messages she could while away time without anyone becoming suspicious. Who would look at just another Londoner attached to their mobile?
Vanhi had taken this route several times before, and she now knew Eleanor's jogging route well. It had taken a varied wardrobe not to be noticed on the first three attempts, but each time, Eleanor was absorbed in her run. She probably noticed little beyond the music on her iPod.
For the first few attempts there had been bystanders around when Eleanor jogged by. On the first day an elderly lady sat next to Vanhi on the bench and nattered on about her grandchildren. Vanhi learnt to put her handbag by her side to occupy the whole bench.
The second day another jogger had been with Eleanor. Whether it was planned or not, Vanhi didn't know. The scant information she had been provided with didn't cover jogging partners. On the third day a homeless man had been harassing Eleanor for money, and he wasn't going to give up without a fight. He had clearly missed the fact that Eleanor was running with no bag, no pockets and only her door key around her neck.
On the fourth try, Eleanor appeared like clockwork. She came jogging up from the south of the park, towards the north-western exit. Vanhi's pulse began to race as Eleanor neared her, faster than even on the previous days. Her hands trembled. This time no one was about, she was sure of it.
Now that it came down to the wire Vanhi realised that she couldn't get Eleanor while she was running, and it was unlikely that she would just stop in front of her.
As Eleanor was about to jog on by, Vanhi called out to her in a loud voice, as she knew from experience that Eleanor's iPod would be set to quite a high volume.
'Excuse me, darling, but your shoelace is undone,' she purred in an affected southern drawl.
Eleanor smiled and glanced downwards at her trainers. As she frowned at the obvious lie Vanhi struck, thrusting the needle into her jugular and plunging the syringe down in one movement.
Eleanor moved to strike out at her attacker but she stumbled. A huge dose of cocaine, hundreds of pounds' worth, coursed through her veins. Her heart began to hammer in her ribcage. She was already breathing hard from the continuous jog, and it did not take long for the arrhythmia to set in as her heart rate soared. She tried to scream, but her lungs were burning from a lack of oxygen. Spots appeared before her eyes as she realised her attacker was dumping her on the bench. Where was someone, anyone, when she needed a passerby? She heard a crack as her consciousness failed her. Her key had been torn from her neck.
Vanhi used her sleeve to pull the key off the chain. It was a cheap chain, the kind that could be bought in a hardware store rather than something more decorative. Vanhi flung the key into the lake, watching for a split second to make sure it sank before power-walking towards the south-east of the park. A run would garner attention, and a swift walk would not. She tucked the chain in her pocket to dispose of later, and escaped onto Queenstown Road.
Minutes later she was lost among the crowd at New Covent Garden Market. Vanhi was in no rush to hurry back lest she draw attention to herself. She grabbed a burger at the market, and as she put the wrapper in the bin she slipped the chain and the spent needle in too. She resolved to walk home even though it was quite a trek. As she did so she practically whistled, thinking of the favour she was due to receive in return.
***
The body was discovered about ten minutes later. An
ambulance was quickly called and Eleanor rushed to the Royal London Hospital. The paramedics tried in vain to resuscitate her, but she was too far gone. They suspected drugs, but nothing they tried worked. Eleanor was pronounced dead on arrival, the latest Jane Bloggs in the city of London as she was carrying no ID.
The hospital could not issue a death certificate. Suspected drugs deaths had to be referred to the City of London Coroner's Office as 'violent or unnatural'. Instead the attending doctor completed what is known as a Formal Notice. This would normally be given to the next of kin, but as the deceased was a Jane Bloggs this was not possible, and the doctor was not entirely sure of the procedure. He settled for keeping the notice on file until it was needed.
Eleanor was soon ferried out of the hospital morgue and onto the coroner's slab. The registrar could not register her death, both because of her anonymity and because the coroner had not yet decided how to classify the death.
A post-mortem was then conducted by the coroner. This wasn't always done, but the coroner deemed it prudent to investigate in the circumstances. It was, in fact, a young coroner's assistant who performed the autopsy.
Before the autopsy the body was photographed by a pathology tech. Detailed notes were taken on the body's position ('splayed, no sign of bleeding'), the clothes worn ('expensive, designer, sportswear') and then various samples were taken including fibres from Eleanor's clothes, scrapings from under Eleanor's nails, as well as hair and skin cell samples.
After the clothes were removed an ultraviolet light was used to highlight anything not noticeable to the naked eye. It was here that the assistant coroner noticed the puncture wound to the neck. He scraped around the wound in case any residue remained, then took a number of close-up photographs to measure the extent of the puncture. It was clearly caused by a sharp-pointed object such as a needle.
Satisfied that all the recoverable evidence to be had was recorded in his log the coroner moved on to the internal examination. A rubber body block was placed in the small of Jane Bloggs' back, pushing her chest up higher to expose it to the coroner's waiting knife. Her lifeless arms fell limply by her side as the coroner cut a Y incision from her shoulders, meeting at the sternum. Heavy-duty shears were then used to force the incisions apart, exposing the chest cavity and the organs within.
He was then passed a wicked-looking scalpel by his tech. This was used to slice open the pericardial sack, a fibrous layer that surrounds the heart. A blood sample was then taken from the exposed pulmonary veins, which would be used for toxicological analysis. Satisfied there were no visible blood clots the coroner then removed the heart. Next to be removed were the lungs, and finally the rest of the organs. These would then be weighed.
It was pretty clear from a cursory examination what had happened however, and that was that Jane Bloggs has suffered a heart attack. This was borne out by the paramedic’s suspicion that drugs were involved. Toxicology would confirm this in 3-5 days, but the coroner didn't care. It was now a police case.
***
Heathrow posed no problems on Edwin's return. He had half-expected to be met at the gate by the police. Maybe the hit hadn't been carried out yet. He decided to test it by texting his ex-wife when he got home. 'Eleanor, I'm back from my job interview. Can I take Chelsea to the movies next weekend? She can stay over here after.' Edwin figured that if he had no response he could assume the hit had probably taken place. It also seemed to him to be a perfectly legitimate text for a father to send.
His flat looked just as messy as when he had left it. The sink still had plates piled high. At this rate it might be simpler just to chuck the plates and buy new ones. His washing still lay on the floor in a heap in the corner. His appearance mattered less and less each passing day; who was there to try and impress now?
One thing had changed however. His laptop was flashing the indicator message when he turned it on. This meant Edwin had received a darknet message. It was from Vanhi, detailing the target he was supposed to hit. 'White male, six foot two, lives in Brixton, name of Emanuel Richard. Edwin read aloud. A grainy picture was attached. The picture showed a hand holding up a photo of a man, presumably Emanuel. The person holding the photo couldn't be seen, but in the background, Edwin could see a neon sign. Edwin concentrated on his target.
Emanuel was distinctive-looking, with grey hair beginning to appear around the temples giving him an air of salt-and-pepper sophistication. Both frown and smile lines were evident on his face despite the low resolution, and his lips were curled in a thin smile. He had pockmarked skin, and watery brown eyes, which stopped him from being handsome.
Edwin felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Taking this guy out wouldn't be as easy as the whole plan had seemed on paper. He didn't know if he could really do it. Edwin felt his world close in. If he did kill Emanuel, he might leave behind some evidence; even the tiniest part of himself could get him convicted using DNA.
He could just walk away, couldn't he? He mused on this for one happy moment before realising that if he didn't deliver, the other person could easily put two and two together to work out who he was. If they went to the police with what they knew – that he was abroad to provide an alibi – then the police would work it out. Even if the cops couldn't prove it, he would still wind up in the dock.
He still had breathing room for now – he had no confirmation the hit had gone ahead. Perhaps he could even call it all off before it was too late.
CHAPTER 7: MORTON
A trickle of light punctured the blinds in David Morton's office as he entered. His desk was exactly as he had left it on Friday evening, a handful of case files neatly aligned with the top edge of the desk, face up and labelled in the upper right corner. As a Detective Chief Inspector in charge of London's busiest Murder Investigation Team, Morton took great care to examine cold cases every Monday morning. The oldest among them was yellowed with age, an unsolved murder from Morton's first year with the Metropolitan Police.
Nothing had changed in the case since the murder in 1985, the year after Morton had joined the force. Somehow this daily reminder that a victim's family still waited for closure reinforced Morton's determination to one day bring the killer to justice. Morton's work meant dealing with the worst in society, but no matter how hard his workload became, the relief expressed by victims' families when a case was finally closed vindicated Morton's career choice. The cases had long since been passed over to officers specialising in cold cases, but Morton felt, as the first detective to investigate, that he was responsible for getting justice.
Morton tore his gaze away from the case, reaching for the insipid coffee he had grabbed from the force canteen on the way in. He replaced the cold case file, squaring the spine with the neighbouring file so that they were all aligned perfectly, and reached for the paperwork that would be his duty for the morning. He hated dealing with the bureaucracy but without it the whole force would come to a standstill. Finishing his bagel, he reminded himself that he was lucky to still be in the field most of the time. Many of his colleagues had been retired to desk duty by the time they reached his age, but the great Inspector Morton had dodged that particular bullet on the strength of his last annual fitness test, just.
He had some of the dreaded paperwork to fill out, and then his presence was required at the coroner's office. A Jane Bloggs had been found dead under suspicious circumstances, and it had been assigned to the Murder Investigation Team that Morton led.
***
Peter K. Sugden-Jones tugged at his collar to straighten it as he disembarked. He had travelled first class from his home in Epsom to London. On arrival he had waited for all the other travellers to disembark before he deigned to leave his compartment. No point risking rubbing shoulders with that kind of riffraff. He quickly exited Waterloo to find his driver waiting on the double yellows near Station Approach Road. The driver handed him a newspaper and a Thermos cup full of Earl Grey. With one fluid movement Peter tucked the Financial Times under his left arm and slid i
nto the back seat.
The driver then turned on the ignition, flooding the car with Vivaldi from every one of the seven Bose speakers mounted in the rear. A small screen flickered to life, showing Bloomberg. As Peter's eyes traversed the morning's market data he sighed contentedly. It was better this way.
***
The paperwork hadn't taken too long, but several colleagues had asked about his weekend away, and he was only too happy to divulge. Chichester had been a welcome break from the noise of city life. David Morton adored the quaint feel of the town. It had once been a walled town guarded by four gates, and much of the old stonework still stood the test of time. An antiques market had been in town during his visit, and David had managed to snag a lovely Lalique vase for his wife Sarah. She adored the artsy stuff, and while David pretended to protest at its sprawling all over the house, he didn't really mind. As long as she left his television and his Sky Sports subscription well alone, he'd tolerate whatever decorative style was in vogue this season.
He'd also had time to sneak away into Chichester harbour for a spot of fishing while Sarah enjoyed the hotel spa. He had never had much time to fish while the kids were growing up, but now that they were adults forging their own lives he suddenly had a lot more time on his hands. Not coincidentally he also had a lot more in the way of funds with which to fund his hobbies, although his youngest son was still on the scrounge at the ripe old age of twenty-four, and had only last week texted his mother asking her to help out with his rent. He knew which side his bread was buttered, as Sarah had agreed before David had even had the chance to moan about it.
Still, it was good to be back. Morton hit the call button by the lift, and headed for the morgue.
***
Vanhi was beginning to worry. Her contact had not responded to her latest messages. Had he been caught by the police? If he had, would the police be after her now too? A dull thumping began in the back of her skull. Stress always affected her this way. When life got to be too much, migraines were always the warning sign that she needed to cut back.
Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel) Page 4