Dead on Demand (A DCI Morton Crime Novel) (22 page)

Security was surprised to see him pulling up in his Audi a little after six. It wasn't unheard of for a junior policeman to put in the long hours to try and climb the slippery pole, but Inspector Morton most certainly didn't need to. Sure, he had come in early before when paged, but security got a copy of all page requests to make sure they let them in unhindered.

'Couldn't sleep, Bill. Thought I may as well make myself useful,' Morton said, rolling down his windows as he approached a gate.

'No need to explain yourself to me, boss. You have a good day now.' Bill had a slightly nasal twang, but he was a mild-mannered chap, and had been serving almost as long as Morton.

His Audi A4 parked in the spot marked 'Chief Inspector Morton', he ascended the stairs with a vigour belying his advancing years, and settled himself with a mug of Peruvian coffee and a digestive biscuit.

What he was looking for had to be in the file. It had to be something he'd already read. He read quietly to himself, thinking aloud.

'Mr Peter K Sugden had been found in the Thames, a drowning victim. His body had been tracked back to the point he entered the Thames, where CCTV showed he was thrown in by a man acting in self-defence.'

It was a sparse case summary at best. Morton flicked on his computer monitor, and brought up the electronic case file. The CCTV would be copied there digitally, and he wanted to see how the man had died.

He saw him bumbling down the road towards the camera, before attacking a man who flipped him over the barrier. It was indeed self-defence.

'Holy shit.' Morton spotted the man who he was attacking. It was none other than Barry Fitzgerald. His self-defence death and his person of interest in another death case were linked.

***

'Shit!' Ant exclaimed. 1332 wasn't the code for the gate. The key looked fine, the logo matched the Kennington branch of the StoreCo building he was outside of, but either he'd been given the wrong code, or the code had been changed since the night of the fire.

He walked away from the gate. It would look odd if he just loitered. He'd have to wait for someone else to come by and simply tailgate them inside. It did mean he'd probably have to come back during a busier period rather than take advantage of the 24/7 access, but it was worth a shot. If the money was worth killing over, it wouldn't be a small sum.

CHAPTER 41: FRANCE

With a scream she let her mop clatter to the floor. Now she knew why the door had been jammed.

'Merde!'
the voice of the handyman who had unjammed the door came from behind her. He quickly shooed her away, closed the door and radioed for port security. Then he stood guard by the door to prevent anyone else entering the crime scene. He knew as much from watching crime investigation programs on television. Now all he to do was wait for the gendarmerie.

***

The gendarmerie arrived quickly, and relieved the handyman. A medical examiner was called from the local
institut médico-légal
, the French equivalent of the coroner's office.

'D’origine criminelle?'
The gendarmerie demanded to know if it was murder. A shrug was the only response they got. There were no external injuries, but without knowing the dead man's medical history it would be difficult to make a call until laboratory tests had been conducted.

What was obvious was his nationality, as his passport was in his back pocket along with a wallet and a mobile phone. Clearly if it was murder the killer had not deigned to rob him. The British police would be informed of course, and there would undoubtedly be an argument over jurisdiction, but for now the French would begin the investigation into the death of Barry Fitzgerald.

***

The StoreCo had peak traffic at the weekends, with numerous customers coming and going, unloading their wares. It didn't take Ant long to piggyback his way in. All it took was for him to approach another punter, and offer to help them unload their furniture. Job done, he was inside the property and could go in search of locker 146. He had the key, but didn't know how the property was laid out.

After exploring the numbers passed as he helped unload a sofa, Ant noticed that the numbers on the larger storage units he passed were all in single or double digits. Eventually he realised that the smaller units were towards the front of the warehouse. Away from the big yellow-fronted doors of the large units the corridors narrowed. These smaller units were more akin to broom cupboards than the garage-like spaces he had just seen. Instead of a generous loading bay and complimentary forklift truck access, the corridors offered more secure storage. CCTV was obvious throughout the area, and the locker numbers soon ascended above one hundred.

A short way on, locker 146 came into view. It was one of the smallest units, a half-height locker that could fit little in. He leant casually against the wall nearby, fishing in his pocket for the key. The key seemed to fit in, and Ant turned it with bated breath. With a click the lock swung downwards, and Ant was allowed entry to the locker.

'Fuck.'

It was empty.

CHAPTER 42: LIKE OLD TIMES

'The body of Barry Fitzgerald, a British man wanted by the Metropolitan Police in conjunction with an active murder investigation, was found today aboard the
Nordic Giant
, a ferry on the popular Portsmouth to Le Havre route. The French authorities are stymied as to the method of his death, as the body is in pristine condition and he had no known previous health problems. Our reporter was refused access to the morgue...'

Edwin felt the weight of the world lift from his shoulders as his eyes traversed the article on page five of
The Impartial
. The last living link to him was gone. It had taken a professional to remove him, but it had been done. The loop of kills wasn't closed yet, but it didn't matter. Edwin was home free.

Edwin was curious as to how Barry had died, but then anyone who read the
Impartial
article would be. No visible signs of trauma, and an otherwise healthy man found dead in a sealed toilet on an international ferry. The press would be running articles speculating for months. They might never know how or why he died.

He would now be able to put in an insurance claim without worrying that the police or the insurance company might flag it up. He was the rightful beneficiary, and the proceeds would clear the mortgage on the house as well as providing a valuable lump sum. Edwin chuckled. It was astonishing to think that Eleanor's prudence in life had essentially provided a bounty on her head. By insuring herself she incentivised him to kill her. The policy would pay out fairly easily. Edwin had already been formally cleared by the police and had a solid alibi, and the policy was mature rather than a recently taken-out policy. It would be a prudent killer who waited over a decade to collect on the life insurance payment. Besides, in Edwin's mind he wasn't claiming money he wasn't entitled to, he was simply expediting the process.

***

The cases just didn't add up. The work Rosenburg had done was by the book, if not particularly imaginative. Barry Fitzgerald was murdered by persons unknown on a ferry leaving the country mere days after a rich banker from the suburbs tried to kill him and fell to his death. The same suspect was wanted in connection with an earlier death of a barmaid from North London.

It just seemed so random. The only clue was the warning from the Financial Services Authority. It had to be about money. No other motive could connect such disparate persons together. If Sugden was involved in insider trading then Fitzgerald had to know about it in order for Sugden to try and kill him. It was logical to assume therefore that the eventual murderer of Mr Barry Fitzgerald was in some way linked to Sugden – perhaps another financier linked to the active FSA investigation – but how did Barry link to Vanhi Deepak? It could be pure coincidence. The evidence against him was purely circumstantial. Then again, he had attempted to flee when Morton had attempted to question him.

Morton shook his head; it was enough to give him a headache. He reached inside his desk and withdrew a packet of morphine tablets. They were supposed to be for his leg, but his head was killing him. It could simply be that Barry assumed the police wanted him in connection not with Miss Deepak, but with the financial crime, in which case his presence in the alley of the One Eyed Dog could be the result of his regular patronage of the establishment. That begged the question of why he thought fleeing the country would assist in evading the Financial Services Authority. The French had confirmed that the body on the ferry was him, so he had to be heading to France to meet someone. What was the connection?

Without more to go on, Morton could only guess. Hopefully the Fitzgerald body would yield some sort of a clue. As the most recent case it was the hottest, the most likely to be solved quickly. The killer's identity wasn't a complete mystery. They were one of the finite number of passengers and crew on board the
Nordic Giant
. There couldn't be that many on board with a link to Peter Sugden or his associates. Perhaps Morton had been rash in dismissing the dandy from the FSA. It might be fruitful to cross reference the passenger manifest with those involved in their investigation.

***

It was a Thursday when the third gold-embossed envelope landed on the doormat of Mrs Sugden.

It was a similar invitation to the first one, but much less formal and far more heartfelt.

'Dear Mrs Sugden,

His Excellency Qadi Qumas and his exalted wife will be holding a dinner party for the village residents the coming Saturday. They would be delighted if you would honour them by agreeing to attend as the guest of honour. They appreciate if you wish to decline, but sincerely hope to see you.

Warmest regards,

Qadi Qumas.'

It wasn't long before his wife turned up to chase the invitation in person. She was deeply concerned at Mrs Sugden's growing isolation. It was, in her opinion, too easy to turn inwards upon the death of a loved one, and by reaching out and offering her support she might be able to help Mrs Sugden at a difficult time. It was hard for Mrs Sugden to decline. The family had been there to support her when her own had not. She had scarcely seen anyone other than her sister, and even then the visits were becoming more fleeting.

CHAPTER 43: SCHENGEN

Mere moments after stepping foot on French soil Pierre was leaving again. He had left the UK on a French passport identifying him as a 'Guillaume Racine'. The name existed only on that passport, the passenger manifest for the journey, and a prepaid Visa with which he had paid. Both the card and the passport would be shredded shortly.

Pierre was once again within the Schengen Zone, a collection of countries that didn't believe in internal border controls. He would travel freely onwards, through France then Switzerland, Germany, the Netherlands and Denmark. From there his next job awaited in Finland. Not once would he be requested to supply any sort of documentation, although he was in fact carrying yet another set of fake documents just in case. He was now an Italian, Giuseppe Berlingieri.

His appearance would be changed dramatically, his hair shortened and darkened. A few licks of grey would be added around the temples to age him, and his clothes would transform his attire from casual businessman to stylised Italian. Square designer specs and a woollen neck scarf rendered him unrecognisable. The police would look for Guillaume Racine for a while, but when they found no trace of him the case would join the growing mountain of unsolved murders in the European Union. With 490 million people in the EU, hiding in the crowd would be child's play for an experienced professional.

***

The gendarmerie were feeling the heat. The death was, as far as they were concerned, their responsibility to investigate. The ship was flying a French flag, and the body was found in a French port. The problem was they had nothing to go on other than a name. The British were being uncooperative, claiming that jurisdiction should be passed over to them as the deceased was a British citizen and might be related to crimes in the UK that were under active investigation.

Jacques Nazaire didn't care about nautical jurisdiction rules. The gendarmerie only took orders from within the military. If the powers that be wanted to fight it out over jurisdiction he would happily leave them to it. Until then, the case was his and he would treat it like any other case.

The problem was it wasn't just any other case. It was exceptionally rare for a death case to fall to the gendarmerie. If the body had been found outside the port the case would be in the hands of the French police, and they had far more experienced investigators than Jacques.

Jacques had seen more contraband cases than most, but this was a different kettle of fish and he was beginning to feel out of his comfort zone. The visual inspection of the body in the morgue had revealed precisely nothing. Other than being dead the man was in excellent health. It was as if his heart had simply stopped of its own accord. Jacques knew this supposition to be false. Dead men do not seal themselves inside rooms. There was a killer out there, and he intended to catch him.

***

Tempers were riding high. The lawyer from the British Crown Prosecution Service, Kiaran O'Connor, arrived unannounced that morning, demanding to talk to the gendarmerie. Those in charged deemed it prudent not to be rude to him, as much as they wanted the lawyer to leave.

As a compromise, they let him into the port but holed him up in the one building without air conditioning. A sweltering thirty-degree day, it had tempers fraying before an official meeting had even begun.

The argument was, in Jacques' opinion, completely unnecessary. He had been called in by those up the food chain to give evidence why the gendarmerie felt the death was on their turf. The French claim was obvious enough to Jacques. The man died on a ship sailing a French flag, and the body was discovered within French national waters. The ship's CCTV showed he had stayed alive long enough to make it to the bar. The barman corroborated this and estimated he didn't disappear from the bar until at least a couple of hours into the journey, by far long enough to leave British territorial waters.