'Deep breath. In and out. In and out.' Speaking aloud helped regularise her breathing. She had hyperventilated in the past, although not recently. Vanhi began to calm down and quickly typed yet another message. Again, it was a request to fix a date for the reciprocal kill. She needed to know when it would happen so that she could be sure she was out of the way. If he didn't contact her soon, she didn't know what she would do.
CHAPTER 8: WHERE'S MUMMY?
It was not like Eleanor Murphy to forget. School had finished promptly at 3.25 p.m. as usual, the large bronze bell in the schoolyard ringing out to end another week's incarceration for the pupils at the Grosvenor Young Ladies Academy. Chelsea, like all of her friends, was eagerly looking forward to the weekend. Hopefully she'd be able to see her daddy this weekend. She knew he was flying back from Canada tomorrow, and she wondered what he would bring her home. A few months ago he had gone to Amsterdam, and Chelsea treasured the beautiful wooden clogs that Daddy had brought back for her. She was so excited.
Her childlike glee faded to confusion when she couldn't see Mummy waiting in the playground. She always stood under the chestnut tree with Andrea's and Lulu's mothers. Their mums were there, but she couldn't see her own.
'Hello, have you seen my mummy?' she asked Andrea's mum.
'No, sweetie, but we'll wait with you until she gets here, okay?'
'Okay.' Chelsea was sullen at first, but was soon talking animatedly with the other girls.
Fifteen minutes passed before Andrea's mum tried to ring Eleanor on her mobile. It went to voicemail after a dozen rings. 'Hi, Eleanor, Sarah here, Andrea's mum. Chelsea is still waiting for you. Do you want us to take her home with us, and you can pick her up later? Let us know. Talk to you later, doll.'
Half an hour later, and still no sign of Eleanor. Sarah rang her friend's number again and left a message on the answerphone. 'Eleanor, she'll be at our place. We'll drop her back after tea if we don't see you before.'
***
The putrid smell hit Morton as he entered the morgue. The morgue had four rooms available for autopsy, but only one was fitted with proper extraction systems to remove the smell of decay. It was a sweet pervasive smell that Morton could never seem to get out of his nostrils for hours afterwards. The other rooms had venting of course, but none of the carbon-activated filtration that the aptly nicknamed 'bloater' room possessed. The bloater room was used for the worst bodies, those which had putrefied or were in the late stages of decomposition that made it impossible to work in an unventilated room.
Thankfully his corpse was much more intact. She was a Jane Bloggs, brought in over the weekend after dying under suspicious circumstances. The police file so far was remarkably thin. She had been found in Battersea Park unconscious early in the morning, and taken to the Royal London for treatment. She was dead on arrival, and an autopsy was mandated by the coroner.
This had revealed a puncture wound to the neck, and a blood sample had been sent off for toxicological testing, which revealed elevated levels of cocaine and industrial ethanol. Oddly neither substance had any impurities, which meant it wasn't the sort of coke peddled on street corners. It had to have come from one of the criminal gangs operating in London.
Morton eyeballed the body. She was tall – around five foot six – and size ten at most, with neatly cut hair. Her nails were expertly manicured, and she had no train tracks or other indicators of prior drug use. Her lungs were clean; the coroner reported she didn't even smoke. She was also dressed in jogging sweats. It was clear she was a health fanatic. It struck Morton as odd that she would die from drugs. She was clearly from another world entirely. Her haughty features and designer clothes screamed trophy wife, not coke addict. So, who was she? Surely someone with the money to wear Gucci while out running would be missed by somebody.
***
Edwin's mobile rang, vibrating against his makeshift desk noisily. He snatched it up almost immediately, then let it ring for a few seconds to avoid appearing too keen.
'Hello?' he said warily. Hardly anyone called him on his mobile; it was probably a sales call.
'Hi, Edwin. This is Sarah, Andrea's mum.' Her tone was terse.
'What can I do for you, Sarah?'
'I have your daughter at my house. She came home with us when you didn't pick her up this afternoon. The poor thing was just waiting in the rain alone.'
'She's supposed to be with her mum this afternoon. Eleanor and I aren't together, so I only have Chelsea at weekends.'
'Oh, right.' Sarah's tone began to soften.
'Sorry, I thought everyone would know by now.'
'I'm starting to worry about Eleanor. We've tried calling her, and driven by the house. No one was home. Come to think of it, I haven't heard from her for a few days. Do you know where she is?'
'Sorry, I haven't spoken to her. I only just got back to the UK. Do you want me to come pick Chelsea up?' A smile was plastered across Edwin's face. Eleanor was gone.
***
It had been a long day. A run on a bank in some third world country had sparked panic early in the morning, and trading had been highly volatile since. Panic really was contagious on the trading floor. Thankfully Peter traded via a broker from his own private office. No one disturbed him there, not even clients. His secretary was allowed to enter, but she was required to knock first and she knew not to disturb him without good reason. She was a vestige of a bygone age. Prim, pressed and proper, Martha was nearing seventy years of age and would retire soon. Peter dreaded the moment she finally packed it in. Interviewing replacements was not a thought he relished, and it was unlikely he could delegate. Even if he did, God knows what kind of riffraff human resources might drag in.
Peter whistled as his private elevator brought him back to earth. His private car was waiting as usual. This time his driver offered him The Evening Standard, and he was left to pour his own scotch for the ride home. It was a Friday tradition to enjoy a good single malt, and it certainly made the journey more palatable.
***
Edwin's message indicator light was flashing again. He tiptoed into the lounge to make certain that Chelsea was still asleep. He needed to be sure that she wouldn't take up and see him messaging. After shutting his bedroom door, Edwin secured the latch, which clicked into place.
Edwin was half afraid to check his messages, but he knew that sooner or later he had to respond.
He had the inevitable chaser message as expected, but he also had a number of other messages. It appeared his first post was still getting interest. He disregarded the new messages. He had enough problems as it was, and Eleanor was already dead even if the police hadn't identified her yet.
He went back to the chaser message and drafted his reply.
'When suits you? It will take a while to plan. How about next month on the second Sunday?'
That would buy him two and a half weeks to work out what he was going to do.
Satisfied, he closed the laptop lid and went to get ready for bed.
CHAPTER 9: NOT HERE, THANK YOU!
The driveway was manicured to perfection. Mrs Sugden didn't do it herself, of course. She wasn't too busy, and she was certainly perfectly able-bodied, but it just wouldn't do to be seen doing her own manual labour.
Identically pruned bay trees lined the driveway to the west of the house. It was extra-long to accommodate Mr Sugden's town car, and was finished with a fine oak carport that protected the vehicle from the weather without making it difficult to get the car out in the morning.
Mr Sugden was as prompt as ever that Friday. His car pulled in at half past eight precisely, and his wife had dinner on the table. This she had made herself. Dinner was the one concession Mrs Sugden made to what she called 'her womanly duties'. She never deigned to clean, but like clockwork fine French food was always served for Mr Sugden. It had been that way for nearly thirty years, and was not likely to change any time soon.
Once Mr Sugden was eating, she waited for him to tackle a particularly rare pie
ce of steak before broaching the subject that had been flitting around inside her skull all day.
'Dear, the new neighbours have moved in. I saw their moving vans this afternoon, all three of them!'
'So what? Can't you see I'm eating, woman?' Peter practically snarled, or at least that's what she thought she heard him say. The steak muffled the noise.
'Well, dear, don't get too angry but they are those kind of people.'
'Faggots?'
'No, dear.'
'Lefties?'
'I don't think so, dear.'
'Foreign?'
'Yes, dear.'
'Please tell me they speak English at least.'
'They seem to, dear, but it's not their first language.'
'What is then? Spit it out.'
'I think it's called Urdu, dear,' she practically whispered. She knew her husband would hit the roof. She wasn't disappointed.
Mr Sugden roared in anger. He leapt to his feet, taking the tablecloth with him. Their dinner plates were ripped from the table and thrown to the floor with a loud crash.
'Pakis! Here? In Little Walton?' Mr Sugden steamrollered out of the room in a fit of rage. He had never been a tolerant man.
***
Morton's deputies had been dispatched to collect any CCTV in or around Battersea Park that they could find. The resultant footage had been less than encouraging.
While there was some CCTV in the park, it was primarily centred around the buildings, and the canoe lake. Those areas had been tagged with graffiti a number of times, and Battersea Council had chosen to focus their funds on preventing desecration rather than providing blanket coverage.
This meant that there were a huge number of CCTV dead spots throughout the park. The major entrances were covered, but there were numerous points of egress around the park that were not. The killer could easily have slipped in, and then out again, at any one of those points. Even if the killer had been caught on CCTV, the tapes showed hundreds of individuals in the vicinity at any time. That might mean witnesses could be found, but Londoners were prone to look the other way. It was instinctive in a big city; people were loathe to get involved.
Signs had been put up anyway asking for witnesses, but Morton doubted the free phone number would get anything other than the usual conspiracy-nut time-wasters calling in.
He was more interested in finding the victim on the CCTV. After all, she would have no reason at all for evading the cameras. With a snap of Morton's fingers an audio-visual technician appeared in the doorway.
'I've got an image of our Jane Bloggs here' – Morton indicated the morgue photos on the desk – 'and I've got CCTV in which she will probably have appeared. Can you use facial tracking to find out where she appears on the tape?',
'Yes, sir, but it will take a little time.'
'Do it.' With that, Morton went to find a cup of tea and a custard cream.
***
The tech had worked quickly. Morton was only gone for twenty minutes and by the time he got back the tech was leaning back in a leather office chair playing Angry Birds. He jumped to his feet as Morton entered the room.
'Inspector, I've isolated the instances of the victim appearing on CCTV. She came in here;' he pointed at the first screen, which showed the north-east entrance to the park. 'It looks like her route brought her over the Chelsea Bridge, down round the east of the toilet block closest to the entrance, and then south towards the duck pond, where she disappears from CCTV. She seems to have avoided the main jogging paths, preferring to run freeform. We get another glimpse of her as she passes the boating lake, and then again here.' This time he indicated an intersection of pathways in the centre of the park near an ice cream van. 'After that, nothing.'
'So she jogged in a "U" shape around the park, which means she was probably going to exit in the north-west entrance or return via the north-east entrance.'
'It's north-west, sir. I checked footage from earlier in the week.'
'Good lad. So she probably lives on the north bank, in or around Chelsea, Pimlico or Kensington. Fits with her clothing, I suppose. Odd no one has reported a middle-aged white woman from the rich burbs missing though.'
'Someone did, sir. This morning one Eleanor Murphy was reported missing.'
'Where's she from?'
'Belgravia, sir.'
'That fits too.'
'Yes sir, and one more thing...'
'Yes?'
'When she entered the park, she was carrying a key. The morgue didn't find any possessions on her.'
'Good work. It might have been removed at the Royal London, but I'll look into it.'
***
Edwin made the tactical decision to report Eleanor missing.
If he didn't, the police would want to know why. Even if they weren't together Eleanor was his wife, and the mother of his beautiful little girl. It would look guilty if he didn't.
Edwin had expected it to be a difficult task, but was pleasantly surprised to find that he could do it by phone. It had been straightforward enough, almost as if the policewoman who took down the details was simply reading a script and recording his responses.
'Any relatives in the area?' she asked
'Her parents are about two hundred miles away, and her brother is currently staying with them.'
'Is there anywhere she typically frequents?'
'Her gym. It's the Fitness First round the corner from our townhouse.'
'Anywhere else?' the WPC ventured, moving beyond the standard script.
'She likes to run twice a day. I'm not entirely sure of her route. It changes so often.'
'Does she suffer from any health problems?'
'Stress, maybe. She is a lawyer after all.'
'Finances?'
'What about them?'
'Who does she bank with?'
'HSBC. It's a joint account.' Edwin had not got around to changing this yet.
'Any activity on her cards?'
'None, but she doesn't really trust cards. She tends to stick to cash when she can.' Edwin had pulled up their online banking statement before the call.
'So I'm guessing she isn't on benefits?' The woman carried on down the checklist.
'No. Well, not unless you include child benefit.'
'We don't. Do you have a recent photograph?'
'Yes.'
'Do you have email access?'
'Of course.'
'Email one to us. [email protected].'
'OK. I'll do that at the end of this call.' Edwin scribbled down the email address.
'We'll also need your consent to search your home.' Edwin paled. Did they know something? Of course they meant the townhouse, not his flat.
The policewoman continued. 'It's standard procedure, sir. We will also need a DNA sample; a toothbrush or hairbrush should suffice. We'll collect that when we conduct the search. I assume you are happy to consent to publicity too. The media can be helpful.'
This question shook Edwin. A search was one thing; they wouldn't find much at the townhouse, but if he started going on television to plead for her to come home... Well, that was another thing entirely. It might get him caught in a lie.
'I'll think about it. It's only been a day, and she might have just vanished for personal reasons, right?' Edwin hoped this sounded plausible.
***
The laptop message indicator was still lit. Some were nonsense. Even Edwin couldn't decode 'I wn2 hlp u bt nd drg muni irtn. wl dnefin.' And one of his undergraduate modules had been on cryptography.
Others were far more straightforward.
'Will eliminate your problem if you sort mine.'
The time limit for the hit he had agreed to was fast approaching. What if he let another one of these crackpots carry it out for him? Then he'd have no link to either kill. He could even be sure to have a firm alibi just in case.
He picked the most promising message, and typed out a brief reply: 'Happy to oblige. Let me know details.'
Maybe he wouldn't
have to kill anyone after all. If he just stiffed the second guy he could get away with it all.
CHAPTER 10: A BROKEN MAN
Barry Chalmers stared at his lap. His waiter came by every few minutes asking if he was ready to order yet. Each time, he said no in a small voice.
But after three hours, the waiting staff were beginning to talk. His date wasn't turning up. He wished he knew what he was doing wrong. His mother always told him to be the perfect gentleman: to buy dinner, to open doors. It never did him any good.
When he'd met Jessica at a music bar in Basildon, she'd seemed cute. She was a bit coy, and it took him most of the night to work up the courage to say hello.
She wasn't even conventionally beautiful. Barry could understand when the supermodel types turned him down.
When he'd finally got to the end of the night, Barry jumped the gun and went for the kiss a bit too fast, clumsily bumping into her neck.
Somehow, she agreed to go out again. To Barry's amazement, they spent most of the summer together. He didn't even mind that he somehow ended up paying for everything.
Half of the restaurant bill or the whole thing made little difference, and he had asked her out so he gladly paid. Only then she came to expect it, as if he owed her.
Still, he spent the money. Tonight was the night he intended to ask her a question. His friend, for he only had one, had told him it was too soon, but Jessica felt like his last chance at finding love.
Barry absent-mindedly turned the ring box over in his pocket as the clock struck ten. Three hours.
Where was she?
***
Barry learnt the ugly truth the following weekend. He was out of London to visit his mother in hospital when Jessica called and said they needed to talk, urgently, face-to-face. He figured it was serious, and rushed back to Basildon.
He took her out to a nice restaurant, expecting there to be news. He half wondered if she might be pregnant. He pulled out her chair so she could sit down, gave her a bunch of flowers that he'd picked up at the station kiosk, and proceeded to order a bottle of Bordeaux.
Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel) Page 5