Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel) (6 page)

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 into 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.

'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 piece 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.