Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel)

by Campbell, Sean

  'What's up, babe?' he had asked.

  'I don't think this is going to work.'

  'We can always go to another restaurant.'

  'No, Barry, I mean us. It's over.'

  'Why?'

  'No reason. We just drifted apart. It's not you, it's me.'

  Barry's cheeks flushed red. He'd heard that line before. The next line was a classic too.

  'We can still be friends, right?'

  CHAPTER 11: CONFIRMATION

  The search of the Murphy residence performed by Missing Persons was cursory at best. They picked up a recent photo, supplied by the husband, and obtained a DNA sample from a hairbrush in Eleanor's en-suite.

  Nothing was missing from the house, suggesting robbery was not the motive despite Eleanor's door key going missing. It would have been a plum target for a daytime robbery; the Murphys lived a comfortable lifestyle.

  The order had come from above not to waste too much time. The legendary DCI David Morton was almost certain that the missing person in question was his Jane Bloggs. The Missing Persons team got in and out, and sent the sample straight to Forensics for analysis.

  ***

  Morton's BlackBerry beeped loudly. He hated carrying two phones, but the force insisted. Everywhere he went he was at the Met's beck and call.

  'Detective Chief Inspector Morton, this is Stuart from Forensics. I compared Jane Bloggs with a photo of Eleanor Murphy obtained from the husband by Missing Persons so I went ahead and performed DNA analysis. DNA confirms our Jane Bloggs is Mrs Eleanor Murphy. All sixteen alleles match.'

  'Good work. Call the husband in to ID the body – and video his reaction for Dr Jensen to analyse.' Reaction filtering was a new technique. Potential suspects in violent crimes such as the husband, ex or other persons of interest would be targeted with visual stimuli such as the body or photos of the crime scene. This would be caught on camera, and the resident psychologist would then review the footage to determine if the reaction was normal, and if not, why not.

  It was a technique Dr Jensen had pioneered during his PhD in Forensic Psychology. It certainly wasn't mainstream yet, but Morton was willing to try anything that would give him an edge.

  ***

  The police had called about an hour earlier. They thought that Eleanor's body may have been found, and needed next of kin to identify the body. What Edwin didn't know was they were recording the phone call. It was expected he would be under stress but Dr Jensen wanted to use the pitch, tone and timbre of his voice to record which parts of the call he found most stressful.

  'Hello?' Edwin's voice was rich, melodious, with a slight hint of that singsong lilt many of Irish descent possess.

  'Good morning, Mr Murphy. This is Missing Persons.'

  'What can I do for you?' His voice was slightly faster now, a little higher. It wasn't much, but Dr Jensen set this as his baseline, the stress level against which the rest of the conversation would be measured.

  'We may have found your wife's body, Mr Murphy. I'm sorry.'

  There was a telling delay before the sobbing began. It was only microseconds, and a normal person would never have picked up on it, but the software was exacting. It was the same software used by insurance companies to weed out fraudulent claims.

  'Oh, oh God. What happened?' Murphy was pretty convincing, but Dr Jensen's gut reaction was that Edwin Murphy knew his wife was dead, but he didn't know the circumstances of her death. That didn't quite make logical sense yet, but it was his instinctive take on the situation. Dr Jensen was the first to admit his potential fallibility, but he was right more often than not.

  'We're not entirely sure yet I'm afraid, Mr Murphy. DNA isn't back yet,' Jensen lied. 'Are you available to come down to the station to ID the body?'

  'Yes, yes, of course. Let me drop my daughter at a friend's house, and I'll come straight down.' The concern for his daughter was touching, but the good doctor wondered if this might simply be a ruse to distract the police.

  An hour later Edwin Murphy walked into New Scotland Yard, and took the lift down to the morgue. It was recessed in the basement, and the only foot traffic in the area was the coroner, his assistants and technologists as well as the occasional cop.

  He was led to a viewing window by the WPC who had phoned earlier, and could see a body underneath a cotton sheet on a gurney. Once he had assured the WPC he was emotionally prepared, the coroner's assistant pulled back the cover. He was careful to show only the face, and not the neck wound.

  'That's her. That's my Eleanor.' Edwin's eyes began to water, and he sank to his knees in a fit of sobbing.

  ***

  Most people cannot distinguish fact from fiction, as long as the deception is plausible. Dr Jensen was not most people. As well as being trained in forensic psychology, he had appeared on television as 'the human lie detector'. He was one of the rare individuals who could recognise micro expressions, visual clues that appear on the face for a fraction of a second.

  With the subject filmed, and the video played back in slow motion, this could become deadly accurate. He had been thrown out of court for trying to testify as an expert witness, it was true, but that didn't diminish the accuracy of his work. The police knew how valuable his opinion was, and so he spent his days locked up at Met HQ reviewing videos, audio recordings and even photographs to see if he could discern the truth contained within.

  'So what are we dealing with, Doc?' called a deep voice from behind.

  'I hate it when you sneak up on me, David,' Jensen said, but his tone was more welcoming than his words.

  Morton smiled. 'I know, Doc, but old habits die hard.' Prior to joining the Metropolitan Police the inspector had done a stint in the military police.

  'Well, the subject isn't being entirely honest with us. He either knew or expected she was dead. That isn't necessarily incriminating. It could just have been deep-seated fear, but I think the slight pauses were the giveaway. Watch him closely.'

  'We will, Doc. I'm on my way to question him right now.' Morton tipped an invisible hat to Dr Jensen, and left whispering a barely audible 'thank you' as he strode towards the door.

  ***

  The gold-embossed envelope fluttered onto the doormat while the Sugden family were still asleep. The maid brought it up with the paper, resisting the temptation to open it. Mr Sugden set it aside at first. Even in front of his staff he maintained an air of indifference. It had to look like gold-embossed envelopes were an everyday occurrence, rather than something to get excited about. After he had supped his coffee, Mrs Sugden passed him his letter opener. It too was embossed, a beautiful handmade antique. It was a relic of the Afro-Crimean war, and had been in his family for generations.

  He flipped the envelope over gingerly between his fingertips. It was addressed simply to Mr and Mrs Peter Sugden. That puzzled him at first. Usually when one goes to the trouble of using such an elaborate overture as gold-embossed silk envelopes, one takes the time to address the recipient in a more formal manner.

  The reverse had not been written on, though a wax seal had been applied to the seams. The crest imprinted in the wax was not a design that Peter was familiar with, and he was knowledgeable of such matters. His family was in Debrett's after all. The figure depicted was a famous imam, but Peter had subconsciously discounted the invitation possibly being from those sort of people and he didn't notice it.

  The envelope eviscerated neatly along the top edge; Peter tugged the invitation from the cotton and held it between his thumb and forefinger.

  'Dear Mr and Mrs Sugden,

  His Excellency Qadi Qumas and his exalted wife request the pleasure of your company on Saturday for the occasion of a Garden Party to be held in celebration of their purchase of Lyddington Manor. '

  The note was on foil-backed card, and was signed by both Mr and Mrs Qumas.

  'First they move in next door, now they outdo us on social occasions!' Mrs Sugden's voice was as shrill as it had ever been in recent memory. Mr Sugden's baritone was far mor
e serious.

  'This just won't do. Those sort of people can't live here, and I'll be damned if I'm going to their glorified barbecue.' Mr Sugden defiantly tore up the envelope.

  'I'll take care of them, dear. You mark my words; they'll be gone before Christmas.'

  CHAPTER 12: INTERROGATION

  The day after identifying his wife's body, Edwin was summoned back to the station as he had expected. On arrival, he was given half an hour to compose himself and make a few phone calls before being shown into an interview suite where DCI Morton waited.

  'Mr Murphy, we've asked you to answer our questions today regarding your wife's death. You are here of your own free will, and you may leave at any time. Do you understand that?'

  'Yes.'

  'We will be tape recording this interview today.' Morton gestured at the tape recorder on the table between them, then proceeded to open a brand new tape and insert it into the machine. 'From this point on everything said will be recorded. For the benefit of the tape, Mr Murphy has attended the station today on a voluntary basis.'

  Edwin leant forward and picked up his coffee in his left hand, absently stirring in a sweetener with his right.

  '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.'

  'Am I under arrest, officer?' Edwin frowned as if confused.

  'No, Mr Murphy, not at the present time.' Morton said simply. It was clear the policeman would not give away information freely.

  'Did your wife have any enemies?' Morton asked, watching Edwin closely.

  'No, not that I know of. A few irked ex-clients, I suppose.'

  'What sort of clients?'

  'She's a lawyer. She dabbles, but it's mostly corporate work.'

  'Do you have a copy of her client list?' Morton humoured Edwin. It was unlikely a simple company dispute would have led to her death.

  'Her firm would. Is that all you need from me, officer?' Edwin began to rise.

  'We have a few more questions yet, Mr Murphy.' Morton gestured for him to sit back down.

  'What is your relationship with your wife?'

  'We're married.' Edwin smirked inwardly. If he was going to have to discuss his marital problems, he wasn't going to make it easy.

  'Was it a happy marriage?' Morton asked.

  'For the most part. We'd recently had an argument. It happened from time to time.'

  'What were you arguing about?'

  'Work mostly. She felt I spent too much time in the office. Bit of a moot point now I suppose.' Edwin thought that a candid approach would garner the least suspicion.

  'Why is that?'

  'I'm working a lot less than I was before.' It was true, of a fashion.

  'I see. We found the divorce papers among your wife's possessions,' Morton confronted him.

  'I didn't kill her if that's what you think!' The denial slipped out before Edwin could work out if it would help or hinder his position.

  'Would you be willing to submit to a DNA test to prove that?' There was no DNA evidence to compare it to, but Edwin didn't know that.

  'Yes, of course. I can also provide an alibi.' It was too quick to offer an alibi, and Edwin knew it.

  'We haven't told you when she died yet.' Morton's eyebrow arched suspiciously.

  'Well, when did she die?'

  'Friday.' Morton didn't give a time.

  'I was on a plane over the Atlantic for most of the day. Ask anyone,' Edwin protested.

  'We will. Interview terminated, 11.29 a.m.'

  With that, Edwin was free to go. He grabbed his briefcase, which was now more of a fashion accessory than a genuine business accoutrement, and scurried out of the interview suite.

  ***

  Peter K Sugden smiled. He had just made over a million pounds short selling in less than four hours. The financial papers had dubbed him a guru, able to foresee market movements with pinpoint precision. In reality, it was less to do with luck or skill than it was to do with networking. Over the years he had built a huge circle of acquaintances who would scratch his back in return for a favour. Some served on company boards as directors, others were at financial institutions such as banks and hedge funds. The commonality between them was that they all had their pulse on the heartbeat of the London Stock Exchange.

  Some of it was perfectly legitimate. Brokers and fund managers often trade rumours. The price of a stock is based as much on perceived value as it is the intrinsic value of the company's assets.

  That perception could be manipulated, to pump and dump certain shares, or to crash their value when short selling them. These were unethical, but the law rarely caught up with those involved. Instead it concentrated on those involved in insider trading. Having knowledge of a company that the public doesn't possess allows for a huge potential profit. Good news means buying up all the stock you can, and flogging it for a hideous profit. Bad news was even easier. Traders borrowed stock from institutions such as pension funds, paying them for the privilege. They then sold them, and rebought the same number and type of share within the loan period. If the stock fell, then the trader made a profit.

  This was what Peter and his coterie did. By trading tips on the innermost workings of public companies he and his cronies were able to manipulate prices to their own advantage every day. The industry average growth was around 8%, and Peter promised investors 15%. He kept every penny above this, and it had made him rich.

  The genius in the system was how they communicated. In the past the system would have been open to wiretaps, police surveillance and counterintelligence measures. Now, they simply used the darknet to communicate, a private network hidden deep in the Internet.

  The set-up had been suggested by the son of one of the parties to the project, and it allowed them to exchange information without anyone else ever seeing it. It was private, anonymous and heavily encrypted. Codenamed the Aesop Network, it allowed the group to openly share confidential information for profit, and they did. It took a while for Peter to become proficient with the technology, but once he did, the sky was the limit.

  ***

  Edwin's way out was confirmed. The previous message seemed serious. The guy was asking for two kills, his ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend. A two for one deal was insane really, but Edwin had no intention of following through so it didn't hurt him to agree. Of course he needed the other guy to come through first.

  'Multiples no problem, as long as you go first,' he typed.

  As long as the guy agreed to that, Edwin was free and clear. The contact had no possible way to find out who he was, so it was highly unlikely the police would ever trace it back to him.

  Detective Chief Inspector Morton struck Edwin as thorough, and his record was impeccable, but no one could link Edwin to a man whom he had never met, nor had any reason to meet. He'd also make sure he had a solid alibi for the night of the kill, one even Morton wouldn't question.

  ***

  The plan had seemed clean even if it was amoral, but Edwin had not expected it to be so hard to break the news of Eleanor's death to Chelsea. He wondered how he could do it and more importantly how he could continue to lie to his little girl, every day, for the rest of his life.

  It was too late now. What was done was done, he rationalised, but the guilt stayed with him. He tried to justify it as self-defence, that he was defending his relationship with his little girl, and that financially it was just self-preservation. Deep down he knew that he would never convince himself, but he could at least explain to Chelsea why Mummy wasn't around anymore.

  Chelsea had never experienced bereavement before. Not real grief. There had been a great-aunt that had died, and Eleanor had made a big fuss over explaining that she was in a better place, but Chelsea had barely known her, so it wasn't much of a loss really.

  ***

  'Right, thanks. The plane landed on time at four o'clock. OK, thanks. You've been very helpf
ul.' Morton hung up the phone, then swore loudly. Edwin Murphy's alibi checked out.

  But Morton couldn't shake the niggling doubt that screamed that Murphy was shifty. You can't fake being mid-Atlantic though. The stewardess even remembered the slimy git hitting on her.

  Murphy's finances didn't turn up much either. The accounts were frozen pending probate as joint accounts, and there were no withdrawals out of the ordinary. It was the usual hodgepodge of car payments, mortgage interest and shopping. If he had hired a professional then either he had got one hell of a deal and paid with pocket change, or he had thousands stashed away from some unknown source that had never touched the family finances.

  Morton didn't think either was likely, and he reluctantly scrubbed Edwin Murphy as a suspect.

  If he didn't kill her, or pay someone else to, then he couldn't be prosecuted.

  ***

  Edwin was feeling smug. He was in jail, but that was the best place for him that night. He had pondered on the best alibi money could buy, and thought about buying a whole bar a drink or something else that would get him remembered, but it was out of character and would look desperate.

  He'd settled on letting the police provide him with the alibi. He went to a pub in Red Lion Street in Camden. He started off gentle, and then ramped up the booze after dinner. Edwin was obnoxious, but all the time he was buying doubles every five minutes, the landlady didn't mind.

  Edwin challenged every man in sight to a drinking contest. Eventually one took him up on his offer. A row of Jameson's Irish whiskey shots was laid out along the bar, a road map to liver failure. The row was two thick, and each man started at opposing ends of the bar. The pretty landlady was roped in to judge, and on her word the men charged. Edwin pandered to the crowd, roaring his delight as the fiery alcohol slid down his throat.

  The other man was much more businesslike, staying low to the bar and quickly knocking back each of his shots in quick succession. He finished first, but Edwin was having none of it.