Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel)

by Campbell, Sean

  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 coroner 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 coroner 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 know 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 in Caledonian Road.

  ***

  Morton decided to carry out the search of Vanhi Deepak's flat himself. He could have sent a deputy, 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 anythi
ng, and Morton took the opportunity to visually sweep 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.

  'No, sir, she didn't need it at work, and when she come home, I always let her in.' His English began to break down under stress, becoming fractured and disjointed.

  'Who would want to kill her?' Morton preferred to be direct. Beating around the bush simply wasn't his style.

  'Nobody, sir.' It soon became clear that Jaison knew nothing of value. Morton could have tipped off immigration – the man was in the UK illegally – but his conscience would not allow him to be party to the deportation of a man who had just lost the love of his life.

  Instead he ventured into the cramped living areas of the apartment to execute the search warrant. It yielded little, but he took her mobile and her laptop for the IT department to investigate. Data storage devices often proved valuable data mines in criminal investigations – Morton hoped that this occasion would be one of those times.

  ***

  There had been no DNA at the One Eyed Dog other than that of the victim. The crime scene techs had been hopeful that the gloves found in the bin might yield epithelial cells. The skin was a rich source of DNA, and would have made it easy to put the gun in the hand of its owner.

  There were a number of fingerprints at the scene, which was no surprise for a public thoroughfare that was used by the residents of an adjoining flat block.

  A few fingerprints were found on the fencing, as if people had taken to leaning on the wall in the alleyway. The landlord had explained that since the smoking ban indoors had taken effect, the smokers had taken to loitering in the alleyway to get their nicotine hit.

  The sheer number of prints would make heavy work of processing the scene. In all, over two hundred prints were lifted, but not all of those would be unique.

  It took a while to process fingerprints. The lifting had to be done carefully, and then every fingerprint had to be individually scanned into the system. Once that was done it was all down to the computer. The first stage of processing the computer would undertake would be to compare the fingerprints to each other to determine how many unique individuals were at the scene. One finger from each of these people would then be compared with the Police Fingerprint Database.

  The database was extensive, as every suspect, whether or not they were then charged, was printed and their data added into the system. With many crimes being repeat offences the database proved immensely valuable.

  It wasn't exhaustive, however, as there was no general requirement for the public to be fingerprinted. This gap meant that first-time offenders, as well as those coming from outside the UK, would not be on the system, and the prints would be flagged as unknown.

  There were thirty-two unique individuals, and virtually all of them were unknown. Of the few individuals who were on the system, none had a record for violence so there was no prime suspect.

  CHAPTER 20: HOPE

  'Dear Mr. Murphy, I am delighted to inform you that we wish to offer you the position of editor-in-chief.'

  Edwin blinked, and reread that line again to make sure he hadn't imagined it. The letter arrived that morning by snail mail, postmarked two weeks earlier. He had been offered the Vancouver job. It had seemed an ideal move when he was a single man escaping a loveless marriage and a lonely London existence. Now that he was a homeowner again, with full custody of his little girl, the rose-tinted view had begun to wear off.

  Edwin didn't know anyone in Canada. It was a lovely place to visit, but visiting a place and living there were two entirely different propositions. He would talk it over with Chelsea of course, even if she didn't really understand. He'd probably have to discuss it with Eleanor's parents too, though how they could object when Eleanor had been planning to take Chelsea to New York for work herself Edwin didn't know.

  At least Edwin didn't have to rush his reply. The Canadians had given him a thirty-day grace period to make his decision, and he wouldn't inform them until it was necessary to do so. He had other irons in the fire, and if they didn't come off he might just take the role to avoid a protracted period of unemployment.

  ***

  There were fingerprints all over the big bags in the alley. Not only did the One Eyed Dog use the alley, but local residents did too, so the fingerprints could belong to virtually any of them.

  Morton zoned in on a pair of gloves found near the shotgun. After flipping them inside out, the forensics team had been able to find several smudged partial prints inside, but there were no epithelial cells so DNA was out.

  Gunshot residue was present on the outside of the gloves, but it had been commingled with rubbish so it was impossible to exclude the possibility that it was transfer.

  The partial fingerprints from the glove were a match to a record , but the file wasn't readily available. It was marked as having been sealed by judicial order, which probably meant that the fingerprint belonged to a juvenile defendant. Juvenile prints were routinely expunged from the database, but sometimes the file managed to evade the recycle bin. Morton was, for once, thankful for the IT department's hideous inefficiency.

  It took Morton's pet prosecutor, Kiaran O'Connor, considerable effort to persuade a family law judge to unseal the file. If defence counsel had been present, the judge probably would have sided with them, but it was an unopposed application with only the prosecutor and the judge in the courtroom at the time. In the end, it was the connection to an open murder investigation that swung it, and Morton was soon sat at his desk with a Starbucks coffee, reading about the owner of the print.

  The print belonged to a Barry Fitzgerald. He was resident in London, but council records confirmed he was not local to the Caledonian Road area. It was therefore unlikely that the presence of his fingerprints on the bag had been put there innocently. Still, without further corroboration it was highly speculative, and David Morton wanted to approach him with kid gloves on. If he was the killer he was obviously armed, and therefore dangerous.

  CHAPTER 21: SUFFERING

  'Hello, handsome. You got a parking permit yet?' Jeanine joked as Yosef walked through the front doors of the hospital. She was Zachariah's nursing assistant, and Yosef had been on first-name terms with her since Zach's first visit.

  Yos
ef shook his head sadly, but did manage a weak smile.

  'Routine visit?' Zachariah had regular visits to the hospital, designed to monitor his deterioration. They say that at rock bottom, the only way is up. But Yosef seemed to be bouncing along the bottom.

  'No. Not today.'

  Zachariah was doing well, compared to most Tay-Sachs sufferers.

  He couldn't crawl, sit or turn over unassisted. He was registered blind, had a severe hearing impairment, and was slipping into permanent paralysis. His mental development was slow, but he was alive and in relatively little pain.

  Like all victims of infantile Tay-Sachs, Zach suffered from infections often. This one wasn't serious – the antibiotics were working. But that might not be true the next time, or the time after that.

  It was that realisation, that Zachariah would be taken from her, that drove Yosef's wife, Zachariah's mother, to take her life shortly before the baby's first birthday.

  In her suicide note she decried the helplessness and desperation that had meant that the whole family was victimised by the disease. Yosef's father often said that the measure of a man isn't his success in life, but in how he picks himself up after failure. In that regard Yosef proved himself a worthy son. He had endured so many knock-backs, and never once given up on Zachariah.

  When his wife had fallen to pieces as Zachariah's condition worsened, he had continued to provide financially, as well as nursing the boy all hours of the day and night.

  Soon it would become his duty to go one step further in relation to the boy. He would not allow him to suffer for years before an infection finally got to him. Yosef would sooner send him to join his forefathers in heaven. This much faith he still had. No god could fail to provide in death for a boy who had suffered so much in life.

  ***

  'Barry Fitzgerald! It's the police. Open up,' Morton called out loudly, then paused to listen for any movement within. In his experience the guilty often fell straight into fight or flight mode. Adrenaline started to pump through their system, and they often ran out of the rear door, or tried to escape through a window or fire escape.